Poem about This, #1

It's not cold, but it's cold for here,
And the fresh snow on the mountains
Blanketing spruce and aspens,
White draperies dropping down, down

To skirt the top layers of the Rim,
Red rocks and juniper-pinyon
Eco-system notwithstanding,
Reminds me of the winter storms

That will not touch our porch for months,
Barring apocalyptic turns
Far from us, in the Pacific.
And since when has the Pacific

Not been as apocalyptic
As any fundamentalist
Praying, waiting for the world's end?
All climates are fickle and dire

To the species that survive them,
And we have survived more than most,
Although over shorter stretches.
Enough about us. The moon shines,

Gibbous, weak in afternoon light,
And I feel compelled to confess,
That I've long loved a gibbous moon,
Especially one in daylight

Because they are unromantic:
Not new, not old, not bright, not full.
Better poets may disagree,
May claim each generation's task

Is to find new analogies
To marry bright words to faint moons.
Ah. I've heard we have only now.
But I don't have now. Now has me.