A Blackened Whisper

What but whisper quiet
Came the snake from out it's den.
Though the frost nipped at his scales,
For the shaking in his den came too much.
He looked to the sky with his black glass eyes
Where the moon hung, heavy and full,
Like a bowl of farmer's cream in the rain
It's pale coloring so full of ripples and life
The warmed white light, smoothing edges and turning delicate
All life and earth that lie beneith.
When black and deadly bodies turn to sun-warmed silk
What once moved fuild like water,
between all rocks, dirt and green
Now lay quiet, no motion but the flick of a tounge.
Like the black ribbon of some form of bedazzled maiden,
Enraptured and Entrapped,
By things too dark and moonlit for us common folk to understand
Wet eyes now you see, to better see,
A world and sky, too far and vast for any tiny creature
Poor little snake, who turned around,
What but whisper quiet
Turn from the moon to greet cold ground
Returned home where nothing turns black to white.