Poem of the Week

You remember it as winter, but what you see

are leaf-shadows on the cupboard door,

black in the moonlight,

shifting a little in some breeze,

then still.

3:00 a.m., barefoot in the kitchen,

moon-shadows of the lilac on the cupboard door

gathered with you on the threshold.

You are only trying to say

what you see in the world. Spring.

Winter. Even knowing what you love

is no salvation. Their heart shapes,

trembling in the moonlight, sharp as frost.