I ask only for a door ajar
so I can peek out, listen to night songs
among foghorns, the dolorous belling
of buoys in wet distance.
Instead, you fling it open to the moon
intent on her morning path, silver thread
spooling but frayed near the end–
open it wide to unleash quiet women
who arrive on the rain, dance and sing
beneath my eaves.
And then as only magic men can,
you peel back the sky, hold to my hips
while I reach out beyond the sill
to rearrange stars, spill spells,
learn what there is in each brief visit.
from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, August 4, 2015 — by Patricia Wallace Jones
photo by Christine Klocek-Lim