The moon is a big lemon for the poet
Above the firs in the snow mountains.
The poet has his lemonade to make
In the small hours of his wakefulness
When they are no firs to host a moon.
The lemons of girls are pretty enough
For poet’s lemonade and are infallible
From bowls of spoons they raced with.
At times a moony lemon would slip off
Behind the waving firs in snowed hills.