The soft dance of light that I always see

The soft dance of light that I always see
on the changing clouds, the unexplained error
of gods. I catch myself in the round mirror
and wonder where she is. The tall oak tree

is making a sound, its branches are free
in the firm breeze. The weather is the juror,
the night is the realm that is not conquered
by the Sun, the Moon moves through degrees

and the harvest comes. She is without image.
The water and the light is what earth wears
and the land represents her. The damage

of the storms and the waves, then the clear
sky of another spring. I'm turning pages
like leaves and waiting for her to appear.