I am the moon lady, pale and ghostly.
But I have the jutting fork of the tree branch
Within me. Deep trunk of gnarled wood
which pulls as urgently as the eagles cry pierces the high air-
The watchful bird of prey which circles endlessly
The elements can be merciless; this I know.
But the sun always rises again,
Soft and burnt orange, ascendant into a shimmering
like a hesitant smile.