The Dance

Through the deep night

meditating alone between two presents

I find a time still.

This yellow moon, clapping kindly,

sprays and wraps to the leaves,

and, so gentle, it caresses the air,

the sounds of sadness and mirth

of us, with spiders in delight, webs of awful ire.

In the dark that remains—closings

crack and stir,

and bar the doors,

of what silence sleeps within the song.

• William Carlos Williams