for Sister Teresa
The morning moon through the bare
branches of the maple, and I think of Mary
reflecting the light of her son. Black sky
with stars and the forest still black. What’s left
of the snow on the cold, cold ground.
And the moon is full and bright
and white as shell, and the light that falls
falls on everyone. O Lady,
how you love me. How you love us all.
December 9, 2017