Full moon low in February’s western sky— 
then half, then crescent fading to white dot, 
then nothing.
Out of sight, in orbit over the ridge.

Like the memorial candle there on the mantle 
illuminating the room, burning for seven days, 
a hundred and sixty-eight hours.
Just a flicker now as I watch it go out— 
leaving a tall glass cylinder empty of possibility.

My husband lived to see a thousand full moons, 
ninety-five summer skies.
On clear nights we’d gaze at the galaxy, 
Cygnus to Sagittarius and Scorpius,
the Big Dipper pointing toward Polaris.

I spin on my own now, from plural 
to singular when “We” became “I.” 
No double v or e to lean on—
little things you never thought of.