inspiration

Observational. A real observation of that night.

Moonlight shines through barren trees
on a cold December night.
Reflecting off the virgin snow,
increasing my delight.

Like phantom fingers reaching out
to play a ghostly harp,
in cadence with the twinkling stars,
in the key of midnight sharp.

The cold is piercing to the bone,
but I'm safe inside my den,
with a crackling fire, a poet's dream,
and my favorite writing pen.

Author's Note

Help yourself. Civil, constructive criticism is always welcome.