A oboe climbs the moving stairs
carved by orange [[moon]][[light]]
and the balanced scales
of orb and mighty ocean.

Quite what this music is
is impossible to say,
though the [[self]] that wandered with me,
who walked up that winding case
then wafted past the far horizon,
knows it is the perfect [[moment]],
and sits now, reflective,
in that [[peace]]
of rescued past, while I clear
his [[empty]] plate and get on
with the dishes, having [[signed]]
my [[surrender]] to the flow of [[time]],
[[trust]]ing that it will keep me
coming back to family dinner.