Hothouse

By Wynn Wilkinson

The full Moon shone ‘cross the babbling stream, and spoke: “Be still! 

I’m full tonight, but your ripples shatter my image; 

Be still, mirrorlike, and reflect the untarnished light of my grace!” 

The stream cried, “I’m trying, I am! But think of my state–— 

The earth consumes me, I fall through the sky, and my bends 

Fall downwards with the slope of this hill. But I’m calm, if not still; 

I’ll end in a pond, crystal clear and serene– meet me there 

To gaze on your gleaming cheeks and precious eyes 

Through your loyal and hardworking vessel, O Moon.” 

But the stream saw no more of the Moon that night, 

And that quiet, still pond sketched shadow in the shimmering starlight. 

I have lured you to the desert with promises of an oasis, and the mountaintop with promises of a monastery. 

They exist in time I do not have. 

The pastures of our eternity have never been greener; 

frolic, and see your own eyes through mine as I forecast the oncoming snow. Lay me face down and in the direction of the enemy, my Love, 

and wish on the smallest wheat-grain you can find that there is no Heaven. Let’s trade: I’ll be the pond, tranquil and still, missing your wandering beams; lest I be the Moon, in glory and grace, crying out for that babbling stream.