You are a door for me where I lean into the moon
listening for a voice made of water.
A voice can be an oak leaf floating down the irrigation ditch
a green hand with fingers spread wide to catch the light.
The moon can be held in a spoonful of water
or in the right eye of a monkey or in a drop of blood.
Tonight the moon is ripening in our cherry tree
and the voice I listen for is yours
come home to me.