Molasses Moons

The splinter of moonlight falls
a pearled bulb wrapping
in the low-clinging pond,
to find the water still
asleep with the sun.

There ghost wood pools,
its name frayed into thread
flung off its ancient cold;
its seeds scatter small
there, in that night
below this one.

I dare not laugh for it;
its cold braces my back
bare with its windows
thrown with a sash trailing
slow in sweet, hard wait.