The Young Moon

The new moon hangs silver
In a sky of grey pearl,
Hangs slender and pale
Like an unripe fruit
In the orchard of dusk,
With its single curl
Peeping out through
The beginning of night—
The youngest of nights,
In the youngest of months,
In the youngest of years.
And I pray the gods
To be kind to the unripe fruits
In the orchard of time,
Through which I walk
Gazing up at …