Fog. Rain taps on the roof.
Someone says, it is the fingers
of our dead trying to remember
what it was like when cold
still touched them. Inside,
we sit huddled around the table.
When we long for moonlight we heat
small puddles of milk in mugs.
Why do we call it midnight
when no one knows what it is
that darkness cleaves
so one part falls
and the other,
falls away from?
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.