After going back in my
frame, I let the dark set in,
to wait for your moon.

No more, or less, you had
plucked my image to wear it. There was
no litany, no contrast.

And a prayer makes
the cherry tree bloom, and
start shedding like my poems.

It can save us, at the
foot of mountain, when rains
come, and we are climbing.

The shadows will meet at
horizon, drowning in water
of moon― to morph into a vault.

The creativity had been at the best.