The Moon is a Quiet Messenger

I guess all men and women have retreated, at times, from quiet climes,
And from the bright light of the moon,
To a bar, a brothel, a saloon

A pretty wink, a flash of flesh, a quick drink
Seem so close to what we're looking for
(In the short term of things, at least)

Meanwhile, poets upstairs write of a ghastly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas
And the moon looks down, while in a black-blue vault she sails along

Upstairs or down, we can't tell if she sits in tenderness
Or looks down ruefully,
But tonight
Fireflies beneath, dancing in the trees
Make all things seem to move more slowly
Closer to what we really want—
To earth and to reality

I’m old enough now to know I’m no saint
But I do want to be good, like the moon
Draped graciously across the trees and the night and the whole earth
And making no more the mistake of taking God’s seeming silence for absence
Or the quiet as hard-heartedness
Or goodness as a river we ford, instead of a sea we fall back into

We were too busy crossing from world to world to stop
And hear the swell of crickets
But thank God that you took my hand and led me, again, beneath the moon
While the night clung to good, cold dirt
While the woods rested and the nightbirds worshiped
In the quiet sanctuary of endless goodness,
Where no words at all are needed