Many will sing and hold vigil tonight so that the Sun can sleep deep & long and then rise in the morning renewed, ready to begin a brand new day & year. In many traditions, tomorrow marks New Year’s Day in honor of Solar Time.
May this be a year of increasing peace, compassion for others and oneself, potable water & food for all and the building of a kinder inclusive world, not for profit but for love.
Other names for the December full moon include: Honey Moon**, Snow Moon, Full Cold Moon, Mistletoe Moon, Frost Moon, Winter Moon, Peach Moon, Christmas Moon, Dark Night Moon, Strawberry Moon**, Long Night Moon, Younger Hard Time Moon, Twelfth Moon, Margashirsha Moon, Fruit Moon, Bitter Moon, Rose Moon**, Moon Before Yule*, Solstice Moon***
*As long as the last moon is before Yule, as it is in 2021.
beneath surgery-bright restaurant lights was the unspoken
collusion of employees and patrons to ignore the bone-defined
man as he tapped thin-paned glass to beg for food.
He shoved skeletal hands toward his gaping mouth as if to fill the gnawing
we could not imagine while digesting pasta and merlot rather than
our muscles to survive as this man’s body had, his hollowed face
pled as he mimed across the chasm of language, culture, class.
After the waiter returned our leftovers, snug in Styrofoam,
I took them across the restaurant, my legs heavy beneath
reproach’s hypnotic weight from those unwilling to squander
etiquette’s rules that insure our warmth while others freeze.
Through my breath outside, I saw him accept a dollar from two
spike-heeled women as they scuttled from a bar across the street,
yet money’s a tool for future trade, no immediate relief for a churning gut.
Drunk with hunger, he wavered in the crosswalk till a horn startled him
to the curb. Waving, I caught his eye, offered the bright box. Our eyes
locked yet he wouldn’t move, suspended in a code more compelling than
starvation, a code older than the south and dangerous as asphyxiation.
Cloaked in privilege, I left our paltry leftovers on the bus stop bench
and returned to the interior’s glare, each of us visible through glass walls.
He sprinted across the street, gulped what would have been tomorrow’s lunch, threw away the box, and returned to the window beside us.
He smiled, waved, tried to thank me, but I saw him only peripherally,
embarrassed to accept gratitude for so little before he walked away.
Thank you to the editors of decomp magazine who first published this poem.