It was

bright, though the moon showed only half
her face. The motion sensor lights did not
need to turn themselves on when I walked
to the bin to throw out the trash. Back inside,
I took up a pair of silver scissors and trimmed 
my husband's hair. I am capable of combing
through a thinning forest and gauging how much
to cut back. Not precision, but a steady eye and
hands that don't yet tremble. The moon loves
a landscape it can stamp with its emblems.
It must have pressed its fingers on my brow,
long ago when I was sleeping. When I woke,
my soul was steeped in the tea of its sadness.
I carry this radiance through the murky world.