This Moon

This full moon, the first since your passing
catches me by surprise. A slit in the curtain

reveals its misty-grey fullness 
blurred in the wintry night sky.

A snow squall of white sparrows 
murmurs against its edges. 

The stars crumble
as the storm rumbles by.

Silver dust turns to ink.
I pen words of love and sorrow,

fill mason jars with water,
leave them to collect the glow.

Outside I dress myself 
in snow and moonlight

until clouds sweep the sky
shadowing our sad house

its shutters lowered like eyes 
heavy-lidded with grief.

Susan J. Atkinson