Changing Textures Poem by Midnight Clarity

In the east the sun
makes gold dots
on the unwary eye
while in the west
the moon still hangs
with earth between
too low for an ecliptic
moment
The trees are green,
are still, while moisture
turns the grass
to silver, still shod
for moonlight serenades
and dances in the dark
receding now
as pale pastels roll up
the velvet cape of night
to drape the world
in cotton and chiffon
now crisp, now soft,
the textures of the day.