It is not the daylight; it is nothing more
than a splash of silver moonlight on the floor,
the glancing of a moonbeam on the door.
I lie in bed and watch this wondrous thing
that glows like dust from a fairy ring,
and lies there waiting, sparkling.
It falls in through the window, through the air,
dazzles my eyes and dances on my hair;
I am close enough to touch it, but do I dare?
Carefully I attempt to catch the flecks in flight,
my fingers bathed in otherworldly white,
while I am in the other world of night.
