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Today is the beginning of the thirteenth moon.
The days are growing short and cold. The night is dark.
The north wind howls through walnut and maple forests.
Deep snow covers the rocks and hollows on the hills.
Bare buttonwood branches are rubbing and scraping
against each other, while their thin twigs snap and break
under the heavy load of winter ice and snow.
The children gather in front of the warm fireplace,
home from a long afternoon of building snow-men
and sliding on their sleds down the slippery slopes.
Holding mugs of hot chocolate and mulled cider,
they sit silently on the rag rug and listen
to the stories of the old ones and the old days.
A thousand generations know these stories.
