I leave you sleeping warm and ride
into the cold night, my eyes
hurt by headlights on windshield frost.
Looking up through the now clear glass
I see the quotidian Earth reach up
and swallow a perfect harvest Moon.
All day its magic hides behind
the Sun’s commercial, rational glare,
but dusk relights the candles of the Moon
rising to lift magic back into the air
and bring me home to you.
– written to Pat some Winter day, probably ca. 2007 or so.