We talked about poetry and nature
like teenagers standing awkwardly
with hands in our pockets
and inspecting the dirt beneath our shoes.

I turned out the light, huddled beneath
a winter’s pile of blankets, too warm,
and listened to the half-moon
whisper secrets from under the curtains.

The morning shrouded around my shoulders,
my mind folding in on itself, scattered,
standing by the window staring
at the tender frost on the grass.

Dawn regaled its song of creation
behind black mountains, the clouds
thin and stretched like thoughts,
my hand reached out for just one more.