A March night, a cold moon
Where, in the moon's mortar,
The rabbit grinds the elixir of life.
But spring is too sweet, and he bounds
Down to the fragrant clover.
For months the moon has come and gone.
Gold. Now it hangs full,
Gorged with the ancient witness, heavy with travel.
All that time.
Now it is close to Earth.
The rabbit halts.
He looks back at the lowered moon
From the meadow he quivers in. The moon-colored clover
He nibbles is young as the spring grass
Against his soft pelt-that young.
Everything around him is
That young, except the moon's mortar and pestle
Hanging close enough to show him how long he's had to be quick.
There is no medicine for this appearance.
Tonight he will jump back into the moon.