The eve of winter Solstice.
I cycle at night 
and in my beam
a harbinger
born of warming.

Myriad snowflakes aflutter
before me and waft past.
Not crystalline but moth,
host are they,
a message, too late?

Late to that table,
our over abundance.
Change, demise, both?
Take your pick, feast on this.
All the early apples got eaten, wasps.
Keepers don't keep anymore.

See that man up a tree,
he does seem busy this year,
but pushing through
a window up a ladder
with his pruning saw.

Window, opportunity, less.
Months they turn to weeks to cut off our diseased
or misshapen thinking.
Into action, gentle, as yet subtle signs,
for those that see, 
December moths.