You are a door for me where I lean in moonlight
listening for a voice made of water.
That voice can be an oak leaf floating down the irrigation ditch
a green hand with fingers spread wide to take hold
of the moon.
The moon can be held entirely in a spoonful of water
or in the right eye of a monkey or in a drop of blood.
But tonight the moon is in our cherry tree full and ripe
and the voice I listen for is yours
come home to me.