The moon
pale, round, soft buttered crust,
spills gold over apple-skin grass,
whole and warm the hush of dusk.

Night birds drift,
weightless ink,
brushing the sky with feathered sighs,
folding themselves into silhouette dreams.

Olive fields hum,
rustling evening’s breath,
leaves whispering secrets to the wind,
soft earth cradling the roots of time.

Ladders lean
old embrace,
tracing the spine of the sturdy trunk,
where children once climbed,
their laughter spun into bark—
a lullaby left behind.

Noon melts,
slow honey,
sinking sweetly in waiting arms,

while the moon watches,
                quiet, whole,
                        a silver lantern hung in sleep’s embrace.