Spring moon's crescent
sensed in the tangled branches
of a twi-lit tree,
naked as bare cross wood.
O moon shard,
languishing like that broken orb
of silver glass clinging to a
Christmas tree forlorn,
hanged forgotten in dead branches
whose evergreen fingers
let you go and
succumbed to death.
And yet you make your appearance,
unreachable by human hand,
a remnant of Christ light born at winter's solstice,
now dark and hanging from full moon's tree.
geraintsmith.com
