Someone has stolen the moon,
and, crushing it in their fists
has scattered it, deep and wide
in ripples and waves and dunes
just outside my door.
It glitters on the nose and hide
of a nimble, dainty fawn
who leaps, stops, and pirouettes;
licking the icy lunar shards
has made him effervescent.
The tundra swans are gathering,
waiting to take to the air.
Every night their skillful wings
will brush the velvet sky
until the moon is re-created