On the night of the Moon Child Moon,
a warm January light paints each grateful tree
and settles on the forest floor.
Gazing into the white-glazed night forest,
I must not breathe.
I pause to wait for the silvery Moon Child Moon
to paint me, too, with loving light.
I’ve nowhere to go.
I wear winter’s soft gown.
I will stop and root into the ground,
silent as the next long tree,
waiting, wondering, patient.
a warm January light paints each grateful tree
and settles on the forest floor.
Gazing into the white-glazed night forest,
I must not breathe.
I pause to wait for the silvery Moon Child Moon
to paint me, too, with loving light.
I’ve nowhere to go.
I wear winter’s soft gown.
I will stop and root into the ground,
silent as the next long tree,
waiting, wondering, patient.
Annelinde Metzner
January 4, 1996
