sensed in the tangled branches
of a twi-lit tree,
naked as bare cross wood.
O moon shard,
languishing like that broken orb
of silver glass clinging to a
Christmas tree forlorn,
hanged forgotten in dead branches
whose evergreen fingers
let you go and
succumbed to death.
And yet you make your appearance,
unreachable by human hand,
a remnant of Christ light
born at winter's solstice,
now dark and hanging from
full moon's tree.
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