Incantation

Winging whitely it came,
That moon—
Where wheatfields below paid homage.
A consecrating host was
That moon—
Mingling grains of wheat into one specter
Of light-bathed.
Magnetically,
That moon
Clustered clouds around itself
Illmuninating them
In lightning lines of silver fluff
In a black turmoil sea
Above the wheatfields
Below.

I’ll give you that moon
As I dance to the sun,
Winging resolutely
To give that gift
With wheat and night.
Silent love.
Holy love.