Last week the night was the show--a full moon, a penumbral eclipse, and a nearby comet. It was the full "Snow Moon," called that for hundreds of years by Native Americans because February is traditionally the snowiest month here in the north. It was also called the "Hunger Moon," since the deep snow often led to bare larders and limited resources for nourishment. In some respects, this season is still the time of the "Hunger Moon" here in Connecticut.
We have plenty of food, of course, since we don't depend on stalking prey in the woods or burying potatoes in our root cellars to last us through the winter. But we are hungry, nonetheless. I am weary of the bleak colors of our landscape, the day-after-day of cold and wind. I hunger for color, for the scent of earth, for the sweet song of birds who know it is Spring. I try to be patient. I page through the seed catalogs and send in my orders, dreaming of fat tomatoes and scented sweet peas. I read novels about growing up in idyllic summer days and swimming in cool rivers.
I have to make do with standing out in the winter night and watching the moon shine through bare branches, summoning my blood and dreams like the tide. Last week's show was disappointing: the shadow of earth barely clipped the edge of the full moon, and the comet was indistinguishable. But the "snow moon" by itself held its charms, and days later it is already "waning gibbous" and slipping away toward March. This is promise enough. Perhaps I will stand in the icy driveway some night and imagine the night when the Owl and the Pussycat got married and, after their wedding supper, "hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, they danced by the light of the moon, the moon, the moon, they danced by the light of the moon." Watch me.
Snow Moon
Far away as it is,
I still see his face,
the old man peering
through a cosmic night,
just as I knew him long ago,
when I, a child of prairies,
stood in silver light
and wondered.
He has watched me
through these years,
and I have marked
my time and seasons,
my waxing and waning,
under his stoic gaze.
And I am still hungry
as those who once endured
the cold of ancient winters
to find something green again
stirring the world to life,
something that make us
rise and dance
in the moon's sweeter light.
I have to make do with standing out in the winter night and watching the moon shine through bare branches, summoning my blood and dreams like the tide. Last week's show was disappointing: the shadow of earth barely clipped the edge of the full moon, and the comet was indistinguishable. But the "snow moon" by itself held its charms, and days later it is already "waning gibbous" and slipping away toward March. This is promise enough. Perhaps I will stand in the icy driveway some night and imagine the night when the Owl and the Pussycat got married and, after their wedding supper, "hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, they danced by the light of the moon, the moon, the moon, they danced by the light of the moon." Watch me.
Snow Moon
Far away as it is,
I still see his face,
the old man peering
through a cosmic night,
just as I knew him long ago,
when I, a child of prairies,
stood in silver light
and wondered.
He has watched me
through these years,
and I have marked
my time and seasons,
my waxing and waning,
under his stoic gaze.
And I am still hungry
as those who once endured
the cold of ancient winters
to find something green again
stirring the world to life,
something that make us
rise and dance
in the moon's sweeter light.
No comments:
Post a Comment