Cirrostratus

Moon would see how
cold she is, what
ice she makes, what
lines we make.
How cold it is
what we do to her.
Alone we would shatter her
for the cold, break her apart.
But cold will only sanctify,
coldest art. So cold
we make you holy.
So holy we are, and cold.
Seen through you
our pain hung around you
and how beautiful
how beautiful, you.
Light now born through us
a new child, round
and true. A halo
painful and new.