It’s the night after Christmas
and I’m sitting out on the balcony
watching a huge full moon
and listening to the barking
of a half-dozen dogs
and calls of five different
frogs in the vegetable garden,
trying to decide whether the moon’s face
is smiling or just bathed in serene thoughtfulness
thinking how quickly the clouds are moving below it
and how swiftly it’s travelled through the branches
of the stringybarks on Lynda’s place – how there is
such motion in such stillness, or such
stillness in motion, how after a lifetime
of thought and speculation there’s still
so much I don’t know, and how
deep and sweet and rich
the wine tastes tonight,
like the essence of the essence
of something I haven’t a word for,
how sometimes you just need
to open yourself,
let things say their names.