Frost Moon – November

The mole has lately made her home
along the stream that nudges at my garden.
Her ears turn inward. Seeking snails and worms,
she flings up earth and stone.  Hunger hardens.
She tunnels deep.  Her nose a star, her senses
sheltered soft and subtle, velvet pelt.
She leans her weight of holiness, dense
thrust against her waxing need, felt
along bony, stubborn fingers. Limber,
wakeful she devours sleep. Unwary prey
upended, a careful hoard she tucks in dim
halls beneath the tousled ground, byways
of persistent foraging – to keep
the small heartache that wants to winter deep.

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