From The Beauty of a Room

The Memory

The streets

are laying out

their sleeping rolls.

The roses

are slumbering

in their garden beds.

The moon

is sharpening

its sickle

to cut a pathway

through the field of stars.

The relay baton

from the prose

hand of day

is being passed on

to the poetic

runner of night.

This morning

when light fell

on my Beloved’s face

nothing

was more glorious

on all the earth.

I have this memory

to sustain me as I wait.