Winter Moon (a poem)

 The winter moon hangs pale and high,

A lantern in a frozen sky,

Its quiet glow on fields below

Turns every drift to silver.

It slips between the leafless trees,

A watchful eye in icy breeze,

And shadows stretch in midnight blue

Where frost begins to shimmer.

The world feels still beneath its light,

A breath held long in deepest night,

As if the earth itself has paused

To listen to its glowing.

And though the dark may linger long,

The moon hums out a gentle song—

A whisper soft as winter wind,

A hint of something warming.