but the peaks below turn ghosts
in its stony light
last year we lost my mother
this year the ghost of my dad
but it's you and I darling
who must settle our restless spirits
unable to attend the usual autumn
moon viewing in the Portland Japanese Garden
where we would have toasted
again their waxing memories
with sake and brushed verse
sleeves moistened by the weeping
of close air out of the fading light
the moon appearing like a mirage
from a bloodline slice of sky
just above the jagged horizon
carved out of a downcast cloud for us
here and now in the absence
of Mount Hood or any festival
crowd to augment or dampen
the echo of what once was
full and bright as this moon
over our own dying
garden and undiminished longing
faces turned to falling night
