This was the week of the Wolf Moon, the first full moon in January, but it is also sometimes called the Ice Moon, or Snow Moon, which is more apt for this particular week when violent snowstorms have tranformed much of the Eastern Seaboard. Our property gently slopes down to a small lake, fed from one end by a river, and emptying from the other into the Long Island Sound. Around here they call it a "lagoon" which I find endlessly amusing, as to my mind a lagoon is a tropical thing, all flashing colored fish and clear cerulean water. A mermaid or two. Palm trees. Our lagoon is frozen, angry, it creaks and grinds against its confiment, and snow scuds across its cracked surface. At certain times of the day the sun catches it so blindingly it is impossible to look at. It is dolloped with hunched waterfowl, geese and ducks, like a white cake scattered with raisins.
The Snow moon sends us indoors. It makes us yearn for fires, and candelight and stews simmering all day through the house. For armchairs and books and cups of tea and honey. For indolence and hibernation and the long wait for spring. It encourages us to spend our day setting up shop in the meteorologically bare atmosphere of the internet. Et voila! So you have it. The Wandering Poetess now standing alone, perhaps with only a silver topped "etsy bitsy" cane to support her. I hope you enjoy our little emporium, and perusing within it. The nights are long and the wolves are howling in Wilton. Do come in.