Silent moon,
you hang above the roof of night,
threading silver through my bow.
Each note I loose is a white petal
falling into a lake no wind will break.
Memory rows across that mirror,
oar-dip without sound;
I play until the echo forgets its name,
until the valley holds its breath
and even the shadow grows warm.
Stay—
when the last string trembles into hush,
let your absent light keep listening
long after the doors of morning close.