Beaver Moon

It's almost dawn; it's almost here, the latest fall full moon;
misty sky, November's end is near, past farewell of goose and loon.
Through branches bare, bereft of leaf, silhouettes on brightening sky,
where last evening glowed, stillness like grief, I strain the moon to spy.

A waxing moon, near full, is named; I pause to wonder why,
the beaver moon in season framed, dams to build and fortify.
But I view the waxing beaver moon, winter soon to be,
time I anticipated, soon, loved faces I will see.

The next full moon will run its course with drives and flights repealed,
because of virus, nature's force to disappointment yield.
But Christmas will have come and gone, when at my door I'd greet,
another full moon's waiting dawn, celebration not complete.

I guess it's called the "Christmas Moon" by the great occasion, its name.
but, though loved ones absent, not immune, we celebrate.-- He came!