November

I love the warmth of fresh tears
as they pool around my eyelids,

how the wind cools them
and takes them into himself

while singing mysteries to me;

and I love the night,
how the moon is always there,

having taken her sweater of pearl
off its hook for the season

to come and hear my confessions.

When I asked the moon
do you know the wind?

and I inquired of the wind
have you met the moon?

they just smiled like old friends.

Then the moon said of my secrets
they are not so bad, my dear

and the wind, seeing my tears, said
here, let me help with that.