Full Moon on a Myrtle Bough

I remember now—
under the bright moon
the depth of night
became in you
its unrolled canvas.

How easy—and how perilous—
like pearls drawn from the sea,
polished, lustrous,
not yet touched,

to stand by the window
and enter fragrance
and myrtle shadows
falling from without.

You studied the curtain,
as if unsure
whether those feathers
were yours or mine—

or already one,
already risen
for a flight
beyond their time.