Let us be true, truly be,
let us be. That was the refrain
I sang under the moon I lost
some months ago.

There it was at last, low above
the trees, the trees black and still,
the birds silent, only a car passing
on the road behind me, not staying.

I know this moment contains worlds,
universes even, possibilities unheard of.
This moment, then the next, and the one
after that; I will count them out carefully.

Thoreau says, "All change is a miracle
to contemplate, a miracle happening
every moment."

The asters I planted on faith in April
have bloomed so bluely, so proudly,
so briefly. They are sighing now as
they lie down in this October morning.

I am counting now — No! I have
ceased counting — to take this moment
as itself complete, so full as the moon,
which I had lost, now waning behind me.