Wood Ibis by Moonlight

This was a cypress swamp by setting sun. Its waters ran with amber and the hot Slow molten gold of day’s last light. Not one White wing had ventured to this darkening spot. But now by moonlight I return and see The cypress blossoming with the hush of flowers; Each stump is white as snow, each withered tree. If I should call out through these lonely hours A single word would wake the garden here And all its folded blossoms suddenly Spread wide their petals and, soaring white and clear, Give back their full-blown beauty to the sky.