Virginal
In dusk of night the moon begins to rise.
Enough of it invades the garden with
The light the peony desires. The wise
One there succumbs to Oriental myth
And spreads white petals even further to
Embrace the gift the heavens offer. White
Adheres to white. Though mild, the beams shine through
The flower’s softness. Beauty comes in sleight
Of lunar hands. The dusk then turns to dark.
The blossom wakes to night time love, to love
So gentle that, though piercing, leaves its mark
On top and through while thralling from above.
..The pallor of the moon is drawn in deep
…But first it was espoused in twilight sleep.