Blue Moon

New Year's Eve on the shore, I wonder,
how would the Eskimos name this snow?

Down to the water to look for the moon,
who lies nestled in the branches at

Fieg's Point like a newly-laid egg.
I make fire, the moon climbs higher,

backlights frost on the window glass,
messages scrawled across the pane.
 
Later an oar boat, far out in the darkness,
hovers like a party under the blue moon.