When I knelt by the sky-black lake,
I knew that I’d think of death.
But I thought of you.

Did you know that the frogs cry,
too? That they
mutter between moans
as they build, like the pebbles
tumbling down this hill?
They cry out your name, and
the water’s silver ripples tremble.

Did you know that caterpillars
blossom light, like stars
in the soil?
Miles apart,
and I imagine they’ll squirm
away
every confetti’d moment
and never touch.

Did you know that I’m 
gone now?
That, across the lake,
between the
bosom of the mountain
and the waist of Whale Rock,
there’s a belt of moonlight 
like the mud-stars?
And I’m there.
Miles apart.

Did you know that the bats
flutter above the water?
Just yet unseen,
pittering delicate wings
along the tide
of your name.

Clouds billow from the black,
misting through sky-stars—
failing to shush them.
Do mud-stars
see the night
and cry
how the frogs and I 
do?

I felt fear when I
walked by 
figures in the dark.
I even wished that I would
disappear
into whatever
nothingness
there is 
beyond the mothers
that are the mountains.
But when I knelt by the
sky-black lake,
I felt you
in the crying
and fluttering
of what night had made.