After the Chinese

Torn by the trees,
a glimmering shred of moon
hangs like a white tear on a dim blue curtain,
a silver crystal shining in the dark …
Out of the dark
comes the wet tang of tears:
the lonely sea
is crying for the tattered wisp of silver,
struggling with leaves behind a net of stars.
Within my hand
the ashen foam lies for a moment,
winking;
the sea knows not that I have gathered
a thousand tears
born of its sorrow:
that in my hand I hold
a thousand tiny silver
stars.