A tree rooted moon. A lunar atlas of streams, highways, and byways. The touch and vibration of a tree nurtures my day. To bend my neck back and raise my eyes to say good night to the moon is my lullaby before sleep. Not even a half hour before the sun’s announcement of the day’s birth, I stood and watched the dance of lunar trees. It is, of course, a matter of perception and perspective like a lens filtering the image, eyes, and brain. But is not all of life perception and perspective? Is not what I choose to see ultimately what I see and what I feel? Do we not filter all through perception and perspective never questioning whether tis truth – and whose. So if I am to err in perception and perspective, if I am to filter what others would say is not truth, then let me err in the image of lunar trees. May the poet Byron say also of me, I “walk in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; and all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes.” May I, like Rumi, close the language door and open the love-window to feel the moon’s breath. May my flaw, my fault, my Achilles’s Heel forever be the heart of a child and would-be poet who feels the moon’s kiss goodnight and dances with lunar trees.