Hatless, I walk beneath
a winter moon that hangs full,
directly overhead,

mounted on a clear-black,
star-splattered sky,
a simple chandelier, perhaps,

or a shiny pate,
the crown of a bald man’s head.
It could be a reflection

of my own thinning dome,
exposed tonight to the cold,
vulnerable to the universe.

Invert the picture, and find
a chromium cranium beaming down
as I clamber on a ceiling

of icy, crunchy snow,
skeletal hands of trees
that wave to the moon

walking below,
looking for infinite ground,
wishing for a hat.

10/09/2001

Posted on 10/09/2001
Copyright © 2026 Bruce W Niedt