A wake of hope carries the moon’s descent
to ride off from the cold sun of winter’s promise.
Is it the cold that slows the squirrel’s journey up,
or, their strife of yesterdays’ feast of stowed summers.
The nip of hope, and the sting from the unknown
stand as cold air in a windless day of frozen temperatures.
Yet, the move of the hours will re-ignite the heavenly stars,
biding rest, to the weary feeling full of the day’s survival.