“I am convinced that the first lyric poem was written at night, and that the moon was witness to the event and that the event was witness to the moon.”

~ Mary Ruefle, excerpt from her essay, “Poetry and the Moon”

Instead of paying attention to pictures, I walked and talked for over an hour in the woods and wetlands, along the river, with my walking neighbor over the phone because we wanted a long catching up and we were not able to meet in person. It was very cold and I forgot to put on my gloves because conversation is pleasantly distracting and all involving with good friends. The ice has formed again on the river’s edge and the wetlands, the sprawling overflowing wetlands, and the brook, and I’m glad it’s back, it’s interesting. At home, I warmed up and sat down to write: something new? Something old? I want to have a poem for tomorrow’s workshop, and I feel a bit blank. I ruffle through some old unfinished pieces and nothing grabs hold of my interest. I want to grow something fresh that is wintery, here, on this cusp, this approach, this demise, this old and almost new year. And, yes, it needs to be something from under this full moon, this cold moon, that I caught a picture of tonight, coatless, I tramped into the yard after dark because I felt it rising over the river and the brown grass and the evergreens and black hardwoods. I walked out into the purpling cold and felt wintered, thoroughly wintered, immersed, captured, involved completely in winter old and new. I have a draft of a very short poem about this.