Waiting on this cold night for the moon to rise over the roof
of the house next to mine. So cold if the stars shiver the sky
will crack. So still that a moon cannot rise.
Still enough that I get tired of waiting on the world’s motions,
crawl in bed and shoulder under the blanket
and when I raise my head stars and moon have sped their arc
into tomorrow, the spears of dawn are rattling in the street,
and nothing has stayed still about the world
except my place in it, beside you, still spooning me
in your sleep, your breath soft on my neck as a bird
shadow skims the winter wind outside the window
and a shaking branch stands by, slurs, stills, and you stir.
for my wife Mary, on her birthday.