For so long that I cannot remember him
A man of glass has lived within me.
Within him lives a woman of iron whose heart
the first snowfall of winter might bruise.
Inside of her is a child of flesh and blood.
The place where they sleep in front of the fire
is dark and silent now.
Coyotes’ laughter settles in the branches of the
cottonwoods,
And the fruit trees like so many moonlit specters
Freeze in their tracks.
Shall I stand on the porch with upraised arms
and implore the lost to return home
or shall I dance the dance of wakefulness under the bright moon?
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