Those freezing February nights, northern
tribes of Iroquois and Algonquin would
sight through frosted trees scorched sphere sure to burn
all earth, saved only by deep snowy woods
and wolf’s howl of frigid wind. While across
storm-stalked Atlantic, beyond to Irish
Sea, Celtic fishermen sang ballads tossed
in frozen air to charred Moon of Ice, wished
for a quick catch and crackling fires of home.
I wish that warmth for you and yours as I
gaze at amber disc braving misty dome
of swirling clouds, silhouettes free to fly,
recalling sacred memories—a boon
to my soul. I call it Memory Moon.
Roger Armbrust
February 27,
2013
