Fish Moon – April

When old leaves broke from branches, buds fit
tight to each notch, shining and dark, to fend
off withering blasts of winter – anger lit
my words that froze, metallic sun sent
doubt doubling back on me like smoke, past
the last marauder, the tumbling wake
of near despair. Now, wonder opens, last
river ice dismembering. Danger breaks
through, currycombs the redgrass foal – the shad
fry slip off spawned. The sky expects the pond,
slides in, claims it. Frogs edge the shore, add
insistent rasp – footprint of ground phlox, flood.
April rises wild. Such risk in giving
bares my panicked heart, the lance of living.

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.