A Terzanelle For the Rising Moon

A Terzanelle for the Rising Moon Alone in the night sky out of a nest of clouds the moon rises to her morning. Alone in the night garden I mark her passage out of the nest of clouds. Through a fork of dead limbs holding on in the dying oak I mark her passage. Light needles sew fragrance. The moon waits awhile holding on in the dying oak. Pollen threads the air, weaves orange blossom scent. The moon waits awhile. Heady with orange blossom scent I climb past the dead limb. Alone in the night sky the moon rises to her morning.