On this chill night in mid-December
a waxing one-third moon, the Cold
Long Night moon - shows itself
in pieces through the red cedar
stiff branches, tall and evergreen.
She is a sign on this dark and clear night,
harbinger of chill in silver and white.
In pieces yet whole, as we, broken bright.

She has moved silent and slow over ice
and brilliant snows of dark Decembers.
She hung three-quarters full on the boughs of heaven
when first I heard the silver bells and saw
tinsel stars above, adorning and adoring.
Myself? A babe with cries imploring!

At twenty years of Christmases
my Cold Long Night moon
was nowhere to be found.
She was a new moon, no moon
wandering unseen over the land.
Myself unseen.  I was barely a man.

When still too young I stood
behind altars and ambos shielded
in embroidered vestments, collared
white. I read the Gospel of Peace.
That night, the waxing Cold Moon,
almost full, filled with light the desert night.
I remember it not at all 
having lost it among all the words.

Many years have gone and now
the Cold Long Night moon continues
its descent into the ocean
just beyond the cedar horizon. 
On Christmas? She will be three-quarters full,
waning, likely to be lost in rain, hidden
by scudding clouds holding snow and ice.
Never mind.  She will be there, seen or unseen,
as she has been for all the years I've ever known.
______________________________________________________________
Portland, Oregon - December 13, 2021