A pink crescent moon in an indigo sky,

was my ceiling that night, though I didn’t ask why,

Simply breathed it all in, feeling strangely content,

as I plucked fruit from a tree that was broken and bent.

We worked in the dark, til a floodlight turned on,

illuminating the scene, spilling light on the lawn,

In that strange brilliant glow I grabbed fistfuls of fruit,

trying hard to relieve the poor tree of it’s loot,

Tired and worn, her branches drooped to the ground,

unable to carry even one more pound,

In her shame there was beauty, with her graceful green leaves,

Gently framing her branches, like a gown with fine sleeves,

The nectarines she grew were hard and small,

but their deep royal colour was not ugly at all.

The scene had great beauty, a part of me knew,

It felt like a secret, no one else had a clue.

But pink crescent moons in an indigo sky, don’t happen too often, and I will not ask why,

I’ll simply take what I’m given, but won’t ask for more,

else I become like the fruit tree, hurt by the beauty she bore.