I am no sliver, no fraction, no trivial ornament of night.
I am not the partial view between the clash of skyscrapers.
I do not wait, timidly, while the fog passes, and cars squirrel
through evening traffic, until the fractious noise of the city subsides.
I am no flash, no flicker, no bud of spring.
I am no atom of memory, no fickle forgiveness, no splinter of love.
Despite the month's tidal shadows, the busy street scene where it is
hard enough to keep eyes level to the crosswalk, the clumsy drivers,
the endless trilogy of light; despite the rude awakening of sunrise,
the clamor of business getting done, decisions being made, acts of
finality and closure; despite the disillusion that life keeps slipping,
moments precious as emeralds, how each day spirals into oblivion;
despite this, I am as whole and wide as ever,
the only landscape you will see from so far and still exclaim
over its beauty, its metaphor, its tenderness and grace,
how you will exact from my shadows a shape reminiscent of yours,
how I will become your only witness, your lunar confidante,
how you will call to me in your darkest hour
and find something of radiance again, a slice of you
perfectly still, and glowing.