one window

moon,

there is one window open

in this house—

drizzle and wind

bully and shoulder

their way through—

and after the ballyrag:

birds tattle on all

 who remain under the clouds:

your jaundiced face is stark

yellow.  We all wait

for a break in the weather.

It’s been days

since you plotted back, resolving

rain and my anxiety

of silence,

my incessant sky.

 You brood unseeable.  

Times like these

I imagine I’m the one

who needs

to reflect and conjure you

to the surface of my cup

of long whisked

silvery tea.

And if I sit beside the right

window—draw open

those  wet drapes—if I sit

and wait and compass

you between the suspension

 of rain,

maybe your mellow face

will float on the surface

and I can drink you

cold in a drop or two

of bee-cleaned nectar

of almond, tupelo,

any faint blossom—

nightshift hitched to the hips

when the refuge gets heavy

in the pause of water,

the stilling of the wind.