Most mornings alight on my bones this way—
The shadows of the leaves of a tree rising
And falling like a ship on a sea, upon my windowpane
That glowed with the golden light of Saturday.
But today, the window was a silent nothing—
When I woke, the shadows had gone away
To stretch big and heavy, to trespass rooms
And hearts and dull their landscapes.
I lay on my bed, still, with a blanket to my chin—
Nursing a loneliness a dream had awakened.
Out the other window, the stone wall glistened dark
With water from the distant, distant heavens.
