Inexplicably lowering as evening sets in,
the moon is siren song in ember orange,
sickle slice of come-hither hook, floating
window to window, spit-roasting through
wake and sleep.

In the dream, a waterfall sprays brilliance. In
another, the dream lies beneath the surface
of a spring-fed sun-fingered pond—a quiet burble
inwardly discernible—and gently bursts
in golden bubbles.

Which land, it seems, in treetops when first light
licks and eyelids lift to gather one more in the list,
all together shining through the mind to divine:

letting go is not so difficult once you see
how falling, too, blazes bright.