The moon now hovers, sits nearer, strung out between canopies of clouds. A voice of night heard clear — a question placed between leaves, waiting for the answer that slips beneath.
Where flowers drown in dew, we linger softly, holding warmth, gathering stories hidden beneath the fray, shuffling impulses in the folds of dusk. May we become like trees,
our roots breaking ground, leading us gently toward hidden stars.
- Muriel Rukeyser