January Moon

A poem that celebrates the winter season and Gardiner's Bay, which is just a short walk away from the Art House Bed and Breakfast.


Cabin windows on the night shore.
Hushed amber rectangles
beneath the circle
glow of moonlight. 

As she lifts above Gardiner's Bay,
she glints behind the bare trees.
Whooshing wind sweeps branches
of oak and sycamore.
They sway in unison in the chilling evening. 

I am in union
with moon’s ghostly shape.
My light, like hers,
not the flame of daylight,
but a quieter passion
fanned by the whims of daily weather,
tempered by the years. 

She rises as I sit
bundled in down and woolen scarf
on the cold cement garden bench.

Little comfort but great gratitude
for another season,
this game of repetition
in which the moon
is as constant and reliable
as I am challenged
by the most persistent part
of growing old,
the sea change that is age.