It's been a cold week--again.
There are beavers in the creek building a dam, which means they are chopping down something I wish they wouldn't chop. I love C.S. Lewis' beavers in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, but in real life, those critters are downright destructive.
I've been watching the sky the last few nights as the moon shrinks from full. It rises over the trees and I wonder that it can seem so big, so close. Each night those trees nibble off a small portion of the full circle as it rises and moves away from me, becomes an object in the sky, instead of a magnified presence. It's not wonder so many poets write about the moon.
Since I missed poetry Friday last week, I thought I would go ahead and share this.
Stars over snow
And in the west a planet
Swinging below a star--
Look for a lovely thing and you will find it,
It is not far--
It never will be far.