"To Gilman Island"

Bright stars need not keep watch for us beneath
The glowing swirling clouds of grayish blues,
Where mountain pine and hemlock ridges sink
Into a rivershore beside the heath,
Where wooded paths descend over the rues
And hobbling rocks to end by water's brink.

In darkness beyond the spring peepers screech.
Our craft tiptoes across the liquid sky,
Oars dipping in -- ripples -- then dripping.
We taste the moonglow blood of earth that rests,
Breathing night-lovers light into our breaths,
Rising and falling the still air caressing,
Awaiting the thud of sand, till we fly --
Feet leaving pillowmarks upon the beach.