In deep midwinter



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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s