Every once in awhile I turn toward the window
imagining your thoughts have brought you close
enough to trust you won't have to explain
if you don't want to explain, or don't know what you'd say
if you did. This day is clear, the sun here outside
your cabin window teases the next
three alders into leaf, yet the air
still hangs back a bit, not yet finished with the chill
of winter, breezes carried from the high snow.
Too early to leave the fragile starts out at night
untended, it may still frost. Yet I sit nearly naked
exposed with a faith that has known moon after moon,
the wax and wane no stranger, the silences
between no cause for flight.
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