Prickly with ice
The moon hovers –
Ghost-thin –
In the sapphire sky.

The solstice sun –
Winter-weak –
Fumes through skeletal trees.

My breath curls –
Lung-hope –
With the forest mist.

The Earth dreams –
Ice-cosy –
And I listen, still.

Maura McHugh
December 21, 2007

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