THE SNOW MOON

In mid February, so cold and misty bright

birds wake, predawn, with mortal us

as the constellations swirl above the bare branches, silver encrusted

while buds begin to unfurl

with snowdrops and crocuses

and I can tell that the sap is rising

with the inch-long sun climbing above the chimneys.

At this time of year and latitude

she is brim, not bloated

spilling her reflected luminosity neatly

into our dreamy edges inbetween.

A few snowflakes, some frosted puddles 

enough to tell her tale.