And When It Comes
Warm evening, open window
a swirl of sound
and we stop and put our elbows
casually on sills and listen to a whisper overhead.
Long hours pass,
shadows turn their faces
up at the moon
and it is still possible to take old paths in easy woods,
to enter borrowed rooms and dim interiors,
and when it comes, so careful, so complete,
it settles on the dark side of the pillow
where light ends and the other world begins.
Copyright © 2004 Ruth Daigon
About the poet