When I put the cat out just before 5, I could smell moonlight, cold as a mountain stream.
Coming downstairs, moonlight in the kitchen, on the copper pots, on the snowdrops in a tub by the doors to the deck.
Would you have come?
Would you have come
Had it been
Beloved, would you have come?
Moonlight has turned the leaves of the small olive tree silver as it leans to the window, hoping for spring.
“The light reflects off old volcanoes, craters, and lava flows on the moon’s surface.”