Wolf Moon

She has been with us three nights—
under clear skies she emerges unblemished,
unrolls her luminous carpet across January snow,
her fingers tracing precise outlines—
tangled branches,
tree trunks in dark columns.

In these woods—
bones exposed,
mute,
our refuge from the bruises of loss—
we wait for the greening,

the hum of trees breathing.
The hour before dawn
the moon arrives at our window,
spreads strong hands across our bed.
Prodding us from old darkness
we awaken inside her canescent embrace,
trace the features on each other’s face.

Jane Richards

Published in after hours: a journal of Chicago writing and art, Winter, 2022