Through the winter

Willa collects leaves from the sidewalk.

On the bus ride home she decides to keep them

through the winter.

At home she lays them on a towel in the bathroom 

so they can be near running water and 

feel the warmth of steam.

Held up by hands of the dead,

I write by candle light while 

the moon sinks down.

My body mirrors the old trees,

becoming conversant with the wind,

branches occasionally dropping off.

Asleep in the big bed, a girl and a kitten 

mesh their dreams 

of forests and fish. 

Awake, I worry the parent's worry, 

how to keep the child safe 

and kindle a sense of wonder.

Buried deep in winter’s dark body, 

the dead grasses dream of

a windy green ocean.

And even with the moon gone, 

the stars continue as golden engines 

speaking in voices we cannot hear.

.