The Map

        

On these nights

when a map 

of writhen branches

appears along 

the fire banked west

and a giant peach

moon rolls

into the black 

sea above 

our wooden houses

I watch 

my daughter’s

shining eyes

just before 

she disappears

I feel the

dark embers 

of my wife’s

exhausted body

and heart

until finally

with daughter 

fast asleep

we sit wrapped 

in our blankets 

of fatigue

holding hands

and listening to

the northern

winds retaking

the prairie.

They descend 

in their long

black coats

and run through

the empty streets

pushing on

the wavy glass

of immigrant windows

and whispering

wintry prayers

to slake our

burning hearts.

.