I have read all night at the kitchen table. Whenever
I look up, people are dying and being born over the earth.
Late moonlight pulls me to my feet in forgetfulness
and because I love her, I go outside to stand with them,
the maples, the pines, and am received without fear or need.
Leaves keep scrabbling around the cabin woods and then silence
in the half dark. Overhead a tiny light, something,
shaves the enormous cold and is gone. My scalp knows it.