Beneath the moon and scattered stars, between
the night and day, I find the threads of light
are pooling into puddles from the beams
of softly glowing cosmic things tonight.
Away, the wind takes up its nightly ruse
to rouse the ruffled pigeons' sleeping forms.
The moon speaks softly; she, my only muse,
continues nightly duties she performs.
The doves, asleep, are dreaming little dreams
about tomorrow's promise: sun and clouds.
The moon their plumage catches, sets agleam
the feathers moving with the wind. Aloud,
I whisper wishes, all of them of you;
I know the moon may someday make them true.