this cold black night —

we draw new constellations

with our eyes

walking home to you

by the light of the half moon —

nearly tomorrow

pink sunset clouds

reflected in the sheen

of yesterday’s rain

winter rain

filtering all the way through

to summer’s peach trees

while you sleep

I watch your lips

for my name

still holding a space

for a roofline long since gone —

our one-sided elm

(in honor of the original Friends' schoolhouse at Stonybrook)

with nothing to say

we call anyway, listening

to the other breathe

fewer leaves

with each passing day —

I call my father

Thanksgiving onions —

my son and I trade tips

on how not to cry