# Also a supermoon

        _..._     
      .'     `.    
     :         :    FULL MOON
     :         :  
     `.       .'  
       `-...-'

## The year exhales.

The Cold Moon rises, pale and unflinching,
casting its silver over frozen fields
and the bare-boned trees that whisper of endings.

It is the last light of the old year
a quiet witness to all that was sown,
and all that remains unfinished.
She glows not with warmth, but with clarity,
a mirror held to the souls winter.

Beneath her gaze sits the empty honeypot
sweetness long gone,
scraped clean by time and tender want.
It waits, not for more,
but simply to be remembered.

The Cold Moon does not promise spring.
She does not comfort.
But she brings stillness,
and in that stillness,
a kind of grace.