I’m sending you images of the moon. It’s dipping and diving between black clouds. I’m looking at a river. I’m telling you about a bridge that crosses the river. I’m telling you about the darkness on the other side.
But there are lights on the bridge that crosses the river. The lights on the river are floating stars. And the moon’s a half moon, leaning forward. Its reflection floats on its back, drifting in the river, surrounded by stars.
You think about the moon. A pond becomes a river. You think about lights like floating stars and you think about the moon. And then it appears, the very same moon, come to visit, at my behest.
Who would have thought you could photograph this moon?
Who would have thought it could inspire such a poem?
When you see
the half moon
you can know
at the other end
of the lens
thinking of you,
just as you do.
Half moon here. Half moon there. Together they equal a moon bright and full.