Don’t Know What It Is

Stone serves moss for a cliff bench
With a view of the moon’s tears—

Did you know the moon could cry?
It sheds tears all the time, but

It’s hard to see loss or gain
In such a thing that’s kept change

As a kind of name, the moon
Like a monk on his green couch

Of hard ground near the spring, calm,
Meant to grow or fade, to find

The truth of the years that pass,
These years that the moss has lined.