A snapper, a black bag of lungs
low to the earth, a crust of dried leaves.
Eyes full of running, a sharp head turning
to head a sky full of moons, howl.
Clear cold full of tired, old stars
call the weak to trail in the snow,
fear the warmth at heel, the silent steps,
the ballet of the grey mother.
So the night is long, three notes constant
dark piano, the lost to be pushed to the white ice,
the dead water, the black spruce waiting,
the carbon hearts still, the dawn lost frozen.
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Comments about this poem (Wolf Moon by Leslie Philibert )
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