by Lindsay Smail
I stood beside the bare sumac
outside our back door.
The full moon hung in the east
lifting its way
beyond the balconies
over a line of evergreens
past the stone wall of the cemetery.
Quiet—such a big thing on the move and
no sound.
A nightly ceremony
brightly visible, clouded over,
always silent—save for the celebrants—
the watchers and the waters
lapping or crashing on the shore.
— from Juniper Volume 5, Issue 1