Long Night

For My Daughter Entering the Age of Reason

Tonight, child, you have thievedStars, spangles of moonlightThat fell upon the meadow, the shadowThe hawk made circling the twilight,The down of a nettle blown into the windOf tomorrow, a rock thrown into the water,Its ripples spreading there as each

Of our acts do, even the smallest,In waves of possibility that reachA shore we can only imagine.

Tonight, child, you sleep, alreadyTaunted by reason and disbelievingThe stories I tell of dragonsIn the forest, that wind in the pinesIs the breath of God, and that nightIs but the underside of light, the wayOne side of a stone faces the sky,The other burrowing endlessly toward the dark.You now spin stories of your own,Webs of diamond treasure and mountainsAlive with your own vivid beasts.

I sit in your darkened room, listeningTo the steady flutter of your breath,Real as the tracks of the deerWe followed across the sand, the soundOf an engine that will pull youBeyond my time and dreams. You, Thief, dreamer, learn the madnessOf reason, but do not be deceived.Let the mist on the distant hillHide crystal horses, the river leapWith fish carved from emerald and gold.

Frost Comes Walking the Moonlight Garden

I have draped the tomatoes in soft white shrouds,For tonight we’ve been promised frost, and the moonIs full and the sky crisp with autumn stars.

I make a cup of hot tea and sit by the fountain,My breath bluish in the darkness. A sheen ofDiamond dust coats the rose and hibiscus, gleams

On fern already gone to brown, sheathes clematisAnd fuchsia, lavender and baby’s breath. ThisIs the way it ends, one night in the garden

Where the stone turtle gurgles merrily, whereThe moon dances among the shiveringWillow strands, a sudden chill upon the air.

In the morning the survivors will gather, waryIn the sun, sage and chive, spinach, the savedTomatoes, knowing there is nothing they can say.

No wind stirs as I sit in the garden at fourIn the morning, watching the frost settle in,Sipping hot tea by the light of the moon.

Spelunking the Midnight

On the loom of midnight, the old womanIn the moon weaves songs soft as spider’s silk.A few gossamer strands glisten with frost,Illuminate the cliffs where wolves have comeTo raise rueful voices in spectral praise.

Cliff-side a cave burrows into darkness,Where the only sound is the purl of waterOver stones as smooth as ice, the onlyMotion the quick coursing of muffled wings,The dart of fish blinded by lack of light.

On hands and knees I enter, a ribbonOf light swinging from my forehead, castingAbout in the seeping dark, revealingOnly what the eye may chance upon: rock,Wing, fin, water, rock, rock, rock, water.

Only when I turn off the narrow lightDo I begin to see, like bat and blindFish, knowing all there is to know ofAir and water, how even here the moonIs singing, how even here, there are wolves.

Near the Edge of Morning

On the precipice of dawn I rise to stars,A rash of silver tangled in the birch,Spectral chant of owls calling to the moon,The cry of jays, the lapis sighs of windAnd pines, the gutturals of sandhill cranes.

There are spirits here, it’s true: a wraithOf shadow that moves unconnected toTree or bird, a coil of memories that hisses,Slithers out of mind, an impish hint ofSpring when winter’s close at hand.

I pick one star to watch, hoping I canFix it with my stare and will it fromDissolving in the waxing light, butIt winks once, twice above the empty birch,Then it’s gone, swallowed by the inching day.

After a Fight with My Teenage Daughter

Last summer, we rode bikes to the park,You on my new...