Everything is white in the moonlight.
Where I stand is familiar—yet my eyes
     continue to search for a silhouette left
unchanged; nighttime highlight, shame, has
          left me unperceiving—
For even that which is tarnished brown and grey
when viewed under the tired yellow of day
Becomes lily-white in the moonlight;
     and a garden of hard angles and shifting shadows
transformed to a pasture of paled luster. Why?—
the figures touched by the reflection of Her profile
     are designed feathered—and made the target.