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