Four Haiku and a Tanka for the Hot Moon

Full moon at solstice,
an intersection of time,
which already fades.
Wine and moon drunk,
who am I to question this?
a rose is a rose.
Buttermilk clouds drape
the solstice moon in thin shrouds:
What am I to this?
We think we can know.
Language lulls us into sleep,
as if the moon cares.
Never a still point,
the moon dances the solstice.
Yet another space:
Doors open to us again,
for time signifies nothing.
(June 20, 2016)

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