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.
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