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.

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.