The night is like
the inside of an egg might be;
the still, dark wrap-around of sky
that, in the end, is broken
by one slivered opening,
one slender, orange line.
Enough to let the morning in.
The frozen ground,
long wintered,
starts to wake.
A maze of tiny crevices
along its skin,
like lace,
like veins.
Enough to let the thaw begin.
Gray clouds,
like lambswool,
close us in.
A heavy quilt
that hides the sky.
Except, along one seam,
a peak of blue
that draws the eye.
Enough to keep the promise by.
I feel a breaking of
the shell around my heart;
a crack no wider than a thread
and yet enough
to let you in.
As if you were light,
or a salve,
as if you were the sky.
-- Deb Cooper