I can feel it freezing on my face,
tiny needles barely touching,
leaving a wondering
whether or not this is real
or some imagined sense
feigning the brain’s sending of signals
rather than receiving.
The steel chain links on the round pen gate
feel real enough.
The cottonwood lifts long limbs,
sketching dark shapes against the densing mist.
I see a nearly full moon
bright enough to stop me
in mid-reach for the latch
and I hear myself gasp
at the unexpected wonder;
I thought the clouds were too thick and heavy,
to let the lesser light that rules over the night to shine through.
An hour later, walking yet again
from the shop to the house,
I look up to catch the glory of subdued image
and cannot find the moon.
Even the lights of the closest neighbors
are dimmed in the settling fog.
I know though,
that the moon has not moved.
I cherish the image of black branches
caught against the shrouded glow
and know how important it is
that I not allow change to mute good memory.
I learned, too, many moons ago,
that we must strive in the shadows of clouds
and never allow our seeing to vanquish vision.