The wind’s wild harping
in the neighbor’s cottonwoods
lifts me from sleep. I am tired,
but how can I complain at the
slow-flowering moon, its
reflection in the birdbath
like a pearl in a pane of glass,
and all the fleeting loveliness
of our yard in the depths of night?
Oh, God, what artistry you lavish
on the sleeping world, what beauty
we will never see or thank you
for. But you have blessed me
with this golden hour like a coin
pressed in my palm. I lie awake
and listen for you, tucked into
the cleft of the rock while your
glory passes by, willing these
still small hours to expand.