Last night I saw the old moon of December—
The Cold Moon—full, with nothing in her arms.
The clouds were sailing all their dark blue forms
Across the sky, and they were massed in number

As they went to see if they could hit
Or miss the old Cold Moon. I stood and saw
Them try to make us three in one dim row,
The moon, the racing clouds, and me. But what

Defied all sense to see—the clouds that passed
So near a moon so far—was that they never
Crossed that cold old face. Their floe-thick river
Raced from west to east, but missed and missed

And missed, and left the Cold Moon full and free.
And still I haven’t learned how this could be.


About the Author

Len Krisak lives in Boston, where he indulges in his two favorite eccentricities: poetry (mostly the classics, which he translates) and pickleball, where a 4.0 rating seems ever to elude him. He tries to model his work on Housman, Frost, Auden, Larkin, Wilbur, and Stallings. Winning Jeopardy! four times was also fun.