Cradle-Crescent Moon
—Poetry and Photos by Carol Eve Ford, Kenai, AK
WINTER CAMP
When all was still, and dark,
a bare sliver of moon slid up the sky,
offering less illumination
than the glorious host of stars.
How far away everything was!
How all alone and small, hugged down
against the bosom of the earth she was,
surrounded by space!
The coals of her fire popped and flared,
then fell dark again,
and she was one of the swirling stars,
the rest of Earth vanished —
all but the sweet clean smell of water and soil.
Suddenly the air crackled forth
with the crazed cadenzas
of a coyote chorus — with one, gone mad,
yodeling up and up through the rhapsody
like a banshee
into the swinging cradle-crescent moon.
When all was still, and dark,
a bare sliver of moon slid up the sky,
offering less illumination
than the glorious host of stars.
How far away everything was!
How all alone and small, hugged down
against the bosom of the earth she was,
surrounded by space!
The coals of her fire popped and flared,
then fell dark again,
and she was one of the swirling stars,
the rest of Earth vanished —
all but the sweet clean smell of water and soil.
Suddenly the air crackled forth
with the crazed cadenzas
of a coyote chorus — with one, gone mad,
yodeling up and up through the rhapsody
like a banshee
into the swinging cradle-crescent moon.
(Excerpt from “Riding the Faultline” by Carol Eve Ford)
Waiting
WINTER BEACH
The winter beach is crouched along the strand
with fisted kelp in tangles on the sand.
Cemented tight above the tidal zones
are frost-encrusted summer skipping stones.
‘Mid ice the tide has scattered in its wake,
dark exclamation points the ravens make,
while eagles pose like effigies in brass
on each abandoned rooftop peak I pass.
Cold winter sun is slant against the day,
and casts my shadow far and thin away.
A sanderling, alone, except for me,
bustles busy by among the scree.
So small and quick and scurrying is she,
that summer recollections flood the beach, the sea.
The winter beach is crouched along the strand
with fisted kelp in tangles on the sand.
Cemented tight above the tidal zones
are frost-encrusted summer skipping stones.
‘Mid ice the tide has scattered in its wake,
dark exclamation points the ravens make,
while eagles pose like effigies in brass
on each abandoned rooftop peak I pass.
Cold winter sun is slant against the day,
and casts my shadow far and thin away.
A sanderling, alone, except for me,
bustles busy by among the scree.
So small and quick and scurrying is she,
that summer recollections flood the beach, the sea.
Frosting
Winter rattles
in frozen willow branches.
Crystal castles form magic
kingdoms
along skeletal shoots.
Delicate boughs turn white,
shatter in wind, like
spun glass
ice
every cell
ice.
Missed Messages
LAYERS
Lights rustled overhead. Their
lingering quadrille roused the
limitless vastness of space.
Lively phantoms arabesqued.
Luminous celestial
ladies danced with Aurora
last night as we slept, snoring.
Lights rustled overhead. Their
lingering quadrille roused the
limitless vastness of space.
Lively phantoms arabesqued.
Luminous celestial
ladies danced with Aurora
last night as we slept, snoring.
Warm Inside
MUSINGS
This special day is round and red,
crispy cold and warmly fed,
icy white, yet evergreen,
furry, soft and sparkling clean.
It glows with warmth, it beams with light,
clear and magic starry night,
smells like spruce and hay and sheep,
candles, babies, midnight deep,
harmonies and jingle bells,
‘round the fire story tells
of wonder, awe, of birth and winter,
meditation at its center.
Crispy cold and warmly fed,
this special day is round and red.
This special day is round and red,
crispy cold and warmly fed,
icy white, yet evergreen,
furry, soft and sparkling clean.
It glows with warmth, it beams with light,
clear and magic starry night,
smells like spruce and hay and sheep,
candles, babies, midnight deep,
harmonies and jingle bells,
‘round the fire story tells
of wonder, awe, of birth and winter,
meditation at its center.
Crispy cold and warmly fed,
this special day is round and red.
Holy Days
Today’s LittleNip:
WHY
—Carol Eve Ford
Who is moved by grace to dance?
What do Hallelujahs shake awake?
When shall celebration seize its chance?
Where does joy, like dawn, await to break?
How will wonder spread her wings?
Hold dear and cherish holy things.
_______________________
Editor Gail Entrekin writes that the Winter Solstice Issue 2021-22 of Canary from Hip Pocket Press (canarylitmag.org) is now available online. Many thanks to Gail and to her husband, Managing Editor Charles Entrekin, for putting out this fine environmental lit mag, year after year!
_______________________
—Medusa, thanking Carol Eve Ford from the beautiful snow country of Alaska for her fine poems and photos today! Carol writes in forms, too—can you find them?
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
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