the moon in dog years

When I stepped out to light 
I saw her clothes had been tidily 
laid on the rocks and things. By 
a river too cold all day to wade,
she stood idly ready to know 
something. If a rose could be pale
as the light of this moon, I would
blush enough blood back up its stem
and into dim petals to wend and uplift 
every soft silken folded shape
with a gift of burst red flame 
in a light made anew. And the thorns 
would be blackest green in that glow.
There'd be nothing but words, soft 
and empty as dew - since I
already knew. We already know.