Season of the Moon

 

Clouds drag languid fingers
across the ghost disc
and offer to obscure our light
    stolen from the sun

Above the Arctic Circle
    deep amid the winter
your sun never shines except
during the season of the moon

The dark--palpable--cloisters
everything

    stars scurry and hide
    the aurora borealis shimmers--
          shivered prisms scattered
          in the sky--then fades
    the snows gloam, weighted
          with old light

until moonrise

          when our sun shines
              when we blink
              at the brightness

 

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