Catherine Chandler

O

The moon is full again. A latticed frost
clings to my window, while the crystal crust
of Lac St-Louis glows as if embossed
with pearls this February night. It must
be twenty-five below. I search for words
of warmth the Guaraní alone must know
to trace their land of butterflies and birds
I made my own a mere four weeks ago.
The moon, immutable, goes on and on,
through human inconsistency and pride,
to reverence the rising sun each dawn
and keep her promise to the ocean tide.
My question, this indifferent night, is how
I’ll muddle through to spring, one month from now.