Sitting by a cedar
   Where zebra butterflies
   Pretend they are leaves
   Sleep upside down,
   Hang from twigs,
   I saw inside a wine glass
   A thistle made of moonlight.
   Or was it her white gold hair?
   I asked, "Would I ever find her here 
   Where twilight winds
   Bring jasmine odors."
   No, the wine said,
   All you'll ever find
   Is a thistle made
   From the light of the moon.