Phases of the Moon

 Once upon a time I heard 
That the flying moon was a Phoenix bird; 
Thus she sails through windy skies, 
Thus in the willow's arms she lies; 
Turn to the East or turn to the West 
In many trees she makes her nest.
 
When she's but a pearly thread 
Look among birch leaves overhead; 
When she dies in yellow smoke 
Look in a thunder-smitten oak; 
But in May when the moon is full, 
Bright as water and white as wool, 
Look for her where she loves to be, 
Asleep in a high magnolia tree.

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