A Poem- for December 

What’s to know below stars,
epistle in afflated ash,
end truth of space environed
with rimy surface- somber 

freedom. Life measured
singular in night’s sound
quiet, when a faint world
balances off an epitaph 

read by wind with snow
in lunar light, slab ice
on engraved stone. Culled
from the sleep, foregone 

music unencumbered
by air strewn breath,
age drawn eyesight, pale
and in the grasp of infancy.