A rosy fire on the hearth, two lovers read,
a black cat purrs, eye to eye with outer space—

no sounds on the lost country roads,
only an owl hooting close, then closer,

and a snowy veil of peace falling,
while distant homes and barns and bare trees listen

leaning north, south, east and west
toward a deep, desired sleep.

All the loose-limbed children, dreaming under blankets,
swim the deep black sky,

where stars as old and safe as time
linger on everyone and every thing, and see it all,

and have nothing to say, nothing to add—
beyond the first light they sent us

from a season long before we were born,
long after we are gone.