I must retrace my exact steps on the crust,
or I will sink knee-deep in snow.
Kneeling to dip water from the open center of the brook –
between the ridged armies of black trees,
a splinter of light along the line of frost.
Clear as a printed map,
wrinkled skin on a cup of boiled milk –
the mountains of the moon, a full disk edging up.
Dreading all day to come here for this necessary water,
temperature dropping toward zero;
under the ice the water’s muscular flow,  
its insane syllables, is like a human voice.
Inside the house, sleep, sleep.
I brace myself to lift the weight on either hand.
Picking up my full kettle and bucket
and fitting my feet inside their frozen tracks,
I return under the risen moon,
following my shadow.