The moon gave you a standing ovation tonight for enduring so much hunger.
It loomed larger than a face on a TV screen and followed your car skirting darkness.
That slow dance on the ice made the barren trees weep for fallen leaves and long-ago summers.
First, darkness lead and then the fractured stars took over, the smallest lights lifting your torso skywards.
To lose a part of oneself left a hole that could grow into something even beautiful with the right safety nets.
The woman lost at the frozen lake sang of her missing husband, the one who never found her.
In the book you are writing the holidays were magical and the dog didn’t die.
The beloved offered gifts with violin fanfare where the coldness froze every heartache.
Fire flames devoured the old notebooks you offered without distraction or second guessing.
The map to Monday also became ash.
If you could stop unwinding memories and let time again be linear, shed fear of hours that could destroy if you fell through
The book would stay as kind as the moon following your measured footsteps.