At the Equinox

By Arthur Sze

The tide ebbs and reveals orange and purple sea stars.

I have no theory of radiance,

                but after rain evaporates

off pine needles, the needles glisten.

In the courtyard, we spot the rising shell of a moon,

and, at the equinox, bathe in its gleam.

Using all the tides of starlight,

                we find

                vicissitude is our charm.

On the mud flats off Homer,

I catch the tremor when waves start to slide back in;

and, from Roanoke, you carry

                the leafing jade smoke of willows.

Looping out into the world, we thread

                and return. The lapping waves

cover an expanse of mussels clustered on rocks;

and, giving shape to what is unspoken,

                forsythia buds and blooms in our arms.