The waning moon slips low through autumn's haze,
her silver touch a cool and teasing thrill.
My branches arch to meet her fleeting gaze.

She glides, a ghost, across these shadowed days,
brushing against my bark with quiet skill.
The waning moon slips low through autumn's haze.

In evening's shiver, soft as distant praise,
her glow awakens roots that lie so still--
my branches arch to meet her fleeting gaze.

The leaves fall down in slow, enchanted frays;
I shed them willingly, blanket each hill.
The waning moon slips low through autumn's haze.

She whispers low, this gleaming phase decays;
I feel her drift as warmth begins to chill,
my branches arch to meet her fleeting gaze.

She'll pass and fade; I ache for her delays,
the scent of dampened earth and promise filled.
The waning moon slips low through autumn's haze;
my branches arch to meet her fleeting gaze.

Penned by my hand on Closday, the 15th of Slyphian, in the year 7 AC.