Jan Zwicky reads Night Music
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,
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.
From Forge, by Jan Zwicky
© Jan Zwicky, 2011