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.
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