Worm Moon (March)

The moon sets wide on water – I am claimed
by flint, the close at hand, the scent of oak
leaves matted.  Roots and reeds, always the same
slow ache of waking.  Loosed from aspen, spokes
of ice pierce the grained snow, the grey
hour breaks when shadows blanch, lift
to overturn lingering dread.  Now day
patterns the sky –  the wind, spendthrift,
unsettles. A slowly widening cloud break
loosens the indifferent floe that  long
pressed against my winter breathing. Slaked
so, hunger spins a single thread of song.
Crow knows, heavy on topmost branch, his eye
silver – his call cleans the whole wide sky.