MOON

The moon shines through the window like snow. My husband sleeps on the porch in the cold to hear coyotes and owls and wind. I sleep in the warm room with a cat curled small against me, no sounds but her breath, the moonlight falling on the roof.

I will dream of a garden where I work in the dark with my dead father among fallen leaves, the scent of snow. I hear a sound like a thousand bees and my father opens the gate to the moon. She enters, whispering, covering the stems and leaves with white.