The towering oak dipped his crooked fingers into the sky,
His rich green leaves stirring the soft, rose-blushed clouds
Which draped themselves demurely across its glowing expanse.
The luminous half-moon pokes his intrusive eye through
that resplendent array of gold, purple, pink, and yellow,
forewarning the passing of this at once homely and sacred pleasure.
For a time, he must reign, bathing the sky in his stately silver glow.
Though the earth below is singing, the sky is all a’ hush now
and he pulls the veil of slumber o’er the land of that towering oak,
promising to remove his gentle veil one more come dawn.
