Spectacularly cold is relative; I suppose
that others are observing in parkas, shivering
in winds more wicked, and snow tormented
by northwesterlies, an assist to the dropping
ambient temperature, well past discomfort.
But there it is — low forties with windchill
sub-thirty in Florida — it feels, to thin-blooded
me, especially cold as I watch the shadow
of Earth consume the disc of a full wolf
moon. Bit by mile, the brightness is snuffed.
I never fully learned musical notation,
never mastered painting, acting (Intermedio:
musical work between acts) or dance.
Now I fight, pressing myself to attainment
of something beyond novice, accomplishing
some slight recognition of craftsmanship
at the art of written communication. I flail
my back and shoulders, donn a hair shirt,
hoping to produce art before my eclipse.
Nothing much to say long ago; fearful
of saying nothing relevant in the couda.
The night sky is sumptuous, gems strewn
on a Scotch Blue cloth, the center a blood
ruby moon — all light devoured, fearfully…
wonderfully quiet. (Coda is from Latin,
couda, meaning tail)The north wind pierces.
Branches of our oaks rattle; we silently
applaud the once-only viewing, wordless.
Inside, the port and the blanket warmed
in the dryer, do little to revive me — undone
by cold and exhaustion, and the moon.
* * *