Sap Moon, Crust Moon, Crow Moon— by any of its names, this moon announces, in all its fullness, worms stirring in earth’s softening center; sap thawing in the maples; snow dissolving by day, crisping by night; & calls of crows converting from haunting ballads to heralding hymns. A robin reappears, throwing off the pine cloak it hid behind all winter like a god hard to find, hard to hear, maybe hard of hearing in the ruckus wind made as it bayed across the plains & yowled in the valleys, hard to see in ice suffocating once-tasseled fields, pinecone & bayberry, numbing perhaps even wings, rendering the soft touch this moon offers almost senseless. Welcome, worms, twisting & teeming with prophecy, welcome, crows & robins, plucking these crawlers from grass now breathing green, welcome, syrup, born again, pushing through the spout, welcome, waxing light & waning dark, welcome one, welcome all, no matter your longing for answered prayer, come, sun yourself beneath the low Lenten Moon.
First there was the twitch of the olive leaf lipping its stem, then the sigh of silt, settling, and the surrender of crickets, their legs, like fans, folding, when the trill of a brook, intoxicating, irresistible, like the grace of his Lord, carried him away that evening— no chariot for Enoch at the age of 365 who walked with God and simply like the last day in a year was no more.
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