Is the sky half-full, you think; or maybe, half-empty?
See clouded colours, distance in your eyes
Looking out from the hillside, as though staring
Out over water. Like all secrets, yours
Turns glass to the touch: cool, brittle, and fine
As silver. I dare not glance my reckless mind
Over its surface: instead, I too look out,
Notice the moths delight in indecision,
Watch the light take its silence to its grave;
Keeping this secret with you, feeling that
Reticence is precious. But tell me, truly:
Is this sky of ours half-full, or wide, half-empty?