Perspective
The moon does not know
how many versions of itself
the river has made.
Here,
it is whole.
There, a passing current
pulls it apart.
Further downstream,
it breaks against the reeds.
Near the stones,
it gathers in trembling pieces.
The moon, meanwhile,
remains where it has always been.
Perhaps this is the difficulty
of seeing anything.
We believe there is the thing itself,
and then what we see.
But who is to say
where one ends
and the other begins?
The river has only ever known
the moon through water.
It does not know
the silver body
hanging beyond its reach.
Only this—
light arriving,
breaking,
reforming
according to the weather.
And perhaps
we are no different.
A memory.
A person.
A love.
A country.
How much of what we know
belongs to the thing itself,
and how much
to the water between us?
Because every life
is seen from somewhere.
Through a particular history.
A particular language.
The small geography
of a life.
Through the years
that taught our eyes
what to look for.
We call this perspective
as though it brings us
closer to the truth.
But perhaps
it only gives us
another version
of the moon.
And if the river
has only ever known the moon
through its reflection,
how would it recognise
the moon itself
if one night
the water became still?