Bare Limbs Against a Cold Moon
Brandon Cook
One pure thing my grief gave me
The ability to see
The sight of limbs on the breeze, especially
Specifically, that beauty:
The bare limbs of winter trees
And against them, far beyond
The opal light of moon
Too proud to swoon, too high to kneel
Standing, simply, stock-still
As if any movement could startle the mouse
Who scampers across the field,
Aware as he is of the owl's impending shadow
Perhaps, of his doom
Or, in his way, perhaps sensing the thrill
Of being alive on a fully embodied night
The whole earth is wound up like a cat prepared to leap
As if there some secret to find and keep
And I, there in the field, my hands reaching blindly before me
Through my grief, some secret to see
Find it, and hold it near
As the dearest thing to me
The bare limbs of the winter trees