That night the moon drifted over the pond,
Turning the water to milk, and under
The boughs of the trees, the blue trees,
A young woman walked, and for an instant
The future came to her:
Rain falling on her husband’s grave, rain falling
On the lawns on her children, her own mouth
Filling with cold air, strangers moving into her house,
A man in her room writing a poem, the moon drifting into it,
A woman strolling under its trees, thinking of death,
Thinking of him thinking of her, and the wind rising
And taking the moon and leaving the paper dark.
MARK STRAND
Boughs : branches of a tree
Instant : urgent
Drifting : flowing
Strolling : walking idly
