Matins

A sickle of moon is caught
in the branches of cottonwoods
along the ice choked river.

A black night.

Stars in their constellations
so far away,
my prayers fly nakedly,
shadows among them.

It is cold.

With broken star gazers who pray,
I await a reply.
simple worship does not seek
the approval of an echo.

Freezing, yeilding to the shivers
of  cooling blood, I stumble in
to wait by my fire
of forest wood.

I hear silver chimes
hanging in the blue spruce
outside my frozen window
played by mercy of sudden wind.

A sickle moon, a star,
a wrung out prayer,
matins sealed with silver chimes.