White Knight

She was blond.
I think if you laid with her next to the river at night, under the Amazon moon, the stars pricked into the blackness, her hair would shimmer.
In the sun there was a tree and that tree was white and I wondered if, at night, the tree would still be white. There was not a green leaf on it, only snow-colored flowers, each a separate flake.
Across the way there was the lamp.
Later, after the sun was setting over California and rising in Australia and it was dark here, I found the tree again and looked at it. It shimmered under the crescent Amazon Moon whose horns point up, under the pin specks of stars, and across from the orange glow of a streetlamp, across the way.
My skin glistened in the lamp light.
And I wondered if I was a white knight.
More importantly, I looked for her, the blond, in the black night.
It's hard to find your princess.