full moon abandons
over fields of snow

silent trees measure
what we already know

we wait in wonder
a lifetime ago

the river
wrapped in a coat
of cold grey stones

slides
its icy lines down
through the mountains

the trees
long leafless
and now heavy with snow

are ever patient
for the moon’s return

this is the season
we grow old

this is the reason
we grow young

each morning the crows  
gather in the trees

behind our house
dozens of them

calling out
carrying on

sweeping back
and forth
  
in between the tight spaces
of things
  
don’t we wish
to watch well above the world?

don’t we hope
to trace the light ascending?

through the night
the snow fell in a silent soliloquy

when the angles and eaves
could no longer sustain it

it rolled off the roof in rumbles
crumpling in chunks

the snow glowed
with blue denseness

trees heavy
with the white of it

boughs heavy
with the weight of it

all morning
we poked with sticks

releasing the branches
in great gusts

of dust
when gathered in grace

we place
our hands together to share

a single word
a single prayer

amen

the fox alights
from a dark stand of trees

and down
through the deep drifts

of snow  
it is a myth

of woodsmoke
and vermilion

and it stands silently
beneath the streetlamp

before being led away
by notes we cannot perceive

for our part
we turn hopeful eyes

to night skies
and cling to the promise

of unspooled mysteries
however

at times
we are so savagely illiterate

to the stories
in the stars
  
uncomprehending to the roles
and lines

of constellations