Under a full moon’s wrestling beams through cobby grey clouds
The village is ghostly
and mostly blue, like my mood.
Not so much eerie, as weird is the moonglow at 4 a.m. in January.
The world has stopped:
A short reprieve from distracting views
And news of who’s screwing who
and other non-truths.
The moonglow is happy-sad and peacefully disturbing.
Even dog-barks end in echoless stop.
Like everything in January at 4 a.m.
Under the moonglow.
In time, everything ends.
So the full moon is timely
The blue snow sublimely
Whispering the great unspoken truth.