The way frost turns on the air
And bites grass down to dirt
Before the first moon is full.
This is winter and its accompaniment.
Now waning, she is the sky’s
Mirror and she wakes in the middle
Of the night to ask if we have long
To live. This unknown measure
Draws her eyes closed again
And lips part in a half moon’s
Mile, overreaching fingers of light
And I leave her in bd.
Outside I notice snowbells
In the garden. This is joy.
The moon is gone.
About Me
- welcome to the labcat
- the labcat is the online life of labrys, smith college's art/literary magazine. we collect poems, prose, flash-fiction, letters, diary entries, essays, doodles, paintings, oils, sketches, photography, animation, videos, graphics, chicken-scratches, stippling, charcoal rubbing, pastels, collages, observations, music and whatever else inspires you. send it in bulky bundles to labrys@smith.edu.
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