A Sheppard’s moon herds woolen clouds across the sky.
In this darker night, several structures loom.
A barn, a stable, outbuildings.
With haste he passes among them.
The lowing of cows and soft whickering of horses
Are not a sign of his intrusion,
But more the natural order.
Beds of roses,
An abandoned bicycle on its side,
And then there is the grape arbor;
Entwined with vines, clothed with leaves, and hung with fruit.
The Sheppard’s moon seems to find space for this.
For it glows with a sinful purity.
A cautious step after another
Brings him close enough to see the dew tears
More perfect than diamonds.
A tentative hand speaks louder than any word
As he plucks just one royal orb,
And starts along his way again.

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