Moonset at Winter's End
Standing at
winter's end with
all its
glossy hunger
after walking
with the
pilgrim forest
for too long
and hearing
all its
phantom wails,
its brittle,
long complaints,
after running
from the
icy wolf packs
of your fears,
the air is
finally emptied
of struggle
like a dying breath
turning to
hymns,
like agony
turning to
gold.
Your will,
a separate will,
searches the night,
searches the
nonnegotiable
emptiness—
light year after
light year
of puzzling
happiness—
for the morning
you remember.
Black water
promises a grave
and an emergence,
plunges deep,
strolls with
Spirit,
splinters the
cold heavens,
always in step
with the
double moon:
one primitive,
one captive,
both calling to
what is
within you.
Look up
from the illusion.
There it is:
the first pulses of
who you really are:
Something ending,
Something just beginning,
Something very much
like the rising sun.
Patricia Joan Jones
To read more of my work go to: My Poetry List
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Moonset at Winter's End
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