Bright gibbous moon in the sky tonight. Started Fontegaia, part 3.

1

 
A pool of cold forest water.  Dark
and clear.  Remote slight muttering.
A rocking of breeze-waves (sinking,
rising).  Underneath an arc

 
of pines.  Beneath your eyelids.
Where images flicker, a fluttering
surf-susurrus (still moon-mooring).
A resin-resonance of prickly caryatids;

 
a pining.  Moon of admonition
for rusted memories.  Disfigured shield
harrowed by rain.  Here testaments repeal
as shed leaves, unbound, tossed adrift -

 
when your absence sets a stream in motion
(veinous pressure bent against the bow).
This is where Siena circles now -
moat-silvered cloister, cryptic ocean,

 
subterranean corona (Diana's brow).
So, in the water, one's reflected frown
turns inside out.  Hoofbeat, wing-flown,
up, down.  Slow tidal undertow.

 
Perceive, Phoebe, how it branches free
(your tributary once, now sole initiative).
Follow down (dawn-star, inceptive
dreamer) time's wide-opening seraph

 
when she sets off in her flighty car
(a nation at heart) - a Frisbee
Sorcerer, or Hula-Loop - her teetery
peripeteia, perilous - your Mayan mare.