No sigh can state how February’s full moon
Beams back at my face, and all facts fall flat.
Science can’t speak what’s spoken in a tune.
Even my thoughtful old dog knows that.
It looks up at the moon, and howls.
Quick to reply, off through the leafless trees
That leave ink shadows on bright snow.
Got a friend a valley away; my ear sees
A far dog bark at that distant bird
As if they’re a reflection of what’s near,
Or an echo, or a memory.
But I know this bright moon, like an old friend
From a long-vanished past that refuses to end.