moon in the mirror

i believe in the quiet revolution
the hum of the garden at tea time,
the dance of rain on the rim of a pond,
the fingers that pluck to the beat of the heart,
the soul that bathes in the glow of a flicker of flame,
the pen dipped in hot stroking ink bleeding trails on the page
(two leaves of a book that forget their separation),
pastel haystacks coloured fuzzy outside the lines,
bristled lips on bristled lips after a tour at sea,
salty-sweet flakes of the forbidden fruit
a smudge on the cheek of Mona Lisa,
the man in the moon in the mirror.

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