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somewhere the moon

just beyond the gray veil
of icy clouds above,
past a sea of snow
falling down from heaven,
waits the moon, silent,
resting, patient for night,
and the brilliant sun,
now blinded, deafened,
beneath this cloak
of winter that has come.

far past what I can see,
feel, hear, smell, taste,
I sense these brighter
bodies glowing, shining,
on some other souls,
but not mine today;
cold and strangeness sleep
here, warmed at the fire
of my hearth uninvited,
but visiting still.

and I let them come–
asking why, what news
they bring or have to barter;
are they omens, portents,
warnings from a beyond
I sometimes doubt exists?
or are they ghosts,
quietly roaming, coming
closer, sensing weakness,
that a moment has arrived?

so they gather together
to question, haunt me,
while the outside closes in,
to bury me in white,
and write that while I sit
and struggle on, alone,
the heavens above–
the warm, golden sun,
and somewhere, the moon–
look down on all, unmoved.

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Listen to this poem read aloud here: