Grief is deeper when the sun goes down and the memories rise up with the moon and the stars. Francine Rivers

The moon was full the night Jimmy died,
seeping through the blinds in the room where he lay
encircled by us who loved him fiercely,
lighting his way home.

She was a Snow Moon, marking the coldest stretch of winter.
Stark and hopeful, a symbol of survival and strength,
beckoning me to believe the loss could be borne,
that lighter days were coming.

A reminder the unearthly quiet after Jimmy’s last breath
was but a heartbeat away
from what the life that lay waiting
to burst forth from below.

The yard is never more alive when the moon is full,
the air pulsing in time with the bullfrog chorus in the creek.
Silver light spills across the grass, silhouetting the trees,
who standing like sentries against a star-filled sky.

Not all growth is visible.
Not all proof of life can be captured by the naked eye.
Sometimes we just have to trust
the life unseen all around us.