I love the look of a winter moon,
barely past full,
just that slight slump of the middle
suggesting it is only slightly less
than the night before.
I love the way it shines through
the bare branches of the locust tree,
giving the least luster
to the rounded edge of smooth limbs
in the dim glow before morning.
I love the way the grass,
bleached by months of cold,
seems turned to snow
in this bright night
caught between darkness and light.
Yes, I love these sights.
But it is not such nights,
not the light of the moon,
or of the sun,
nor heat nor frost,
that gives me hope,
of him who made the moon and stars,
the sun and the galaxies beyond,
and even the grass that passes from season to season.
It is him who has made this day,
and not the day itself,
gives me reason to rejoice,