Buttercups draw the light
against them
in an overcast June,
kettle gray clouds
with little rain.
In nascent May
they faced each other,
she, weaver of crowns
with violets in her lap,
he, in mixolydian mode.
They promised to move no stones.
All honor to the moon,
to the night trains
longing in the valley,
to the sanctity of solitude,
to quiet minds
in the shortening dark.
The morning comes on golden sandals.
—With a nod to Thoreau and a bow to Sappho.
