Rose Red is the Moon

Rose red is the moon
on this summer’s day,
a petal floating free
from the hand,
scented remnant
heaven bound,
perfuming distant skies,
future paths.

The blossom of childhood
likewise fragile,
an ethereal moment
of promise and hope
before it too, drifts away.

Snow white is the moon,
of the winter age,
when cold bones recall
the blush-tinted memory
of that fragrant night
and the soul is warmed
for a little while.