The summer night is dangerous and deep.
I lie, dead still, aware of the tiniest sounds
Being so full of joy I cannot sleep.
The night is dangerous, so many lives.
I love my husband well. A sharp moon
Rubs the spine of the barn. Nothing moves.
So many lives for the small years that remain.
My skin more wrinkled than a withered prune,
I study my hand and no word can explain.