The moon is up. Its ivory tray
awaits your cares to cart them off
to sleep. As light as livelong day,
it rests, a pearl on black-necked night.
Whispered stanzas come and go,
music wafted on the wind; out
back we’ve set a chair for you,
a fire, too, against the night,
like spring in winter, birth in death,
like calm in storm, a warmly way
to mark your visit as a day
of peace and truth, of talk all night,
of goals and dreams, ideas and plans,
and sated rest once moonlight wanes.
So come, dear one, and bring your pain,
the blood-red wine we’ll nurse all night.