Now I write by the light of the moon,
Though it is dim,
An orb half-full and growing, ever turning on its distant axis.
How long since I last saw snowfall?
It must have been a century since then,
The train rolling easy over the flat lands of North Dakota,
The world a fresh new slate of snow.
The same joy now inhabits my body that once inhabited me then,
When the old tall oaks were but fragile saplings,
When the rivers ran undammed through forests and hills,
When mountains once stood higher than men,
Proud and unconquered.
This is when I once was happy, and now it returns,
Everything comes full-circle, everything made of cycles,
Just as the moon, half full and growing, fills the night,
It fills my soul and these very pages with inspiration,
And so it continues, forever.