The moon shines through the window like snow.
My husband sleeps on the porch in the cold
to hear coyotes and owls and wind.
I sleep in the warm room
with a cat curled small against me,
no sounds but her breath,
the moonlight falling on the roof.
I will dream of a garden where I work
in the dark with my dead father
among fallen leaves, the scent of snow.
I hear a sound like a thousand bees
and my father opens the gate
to the moon. She enters, whispering,
covering the stems and leaves with white.