I thought you were the one
who would lead me out–
the moon was bright
but not light enough
and your face was hidden
by a cloud that would not leave.

Gray and white and black are colors;
afraid of death I rushed into the light–it was too bright!

How many times a year
will you grieve for what is lost?
The moon stood still for the sun
but only once and then no more.

We have never met
but have met a thousand
times and like flowers
that will not bloom
we stand inside ourselves
and find the other.

A paradox we two
who are not one,
you in your glory,
me in my decline,
have stopped to love
an opposition of a kind–
this song, this poem, this painting,
works of art that cannot be seen,
hidden in a miser heart
that will not set us free.