How much sound there is in the resonant dawn,

full-string orchestra of waning stars over frozen

banks of snow, neighbors’ houses hours deep

in last night’s moon. Our Mezuzah marking

the threshold sharp as a blade. Candle wax

in the shape of a single want. How much night

there still is in the first hour of day. I want to wrap myself

in a coat and quiet, submerge myself into snow and blue,

the throat of morning opening like the mouth of some

silent and hungry bird. Away from the day that will soon

claim me. Away from requirements and talking. I want

to be as much a part of this landscape as the horizon line

of snow hard against the river sky. How much light

is still hanging in the air, as if the moon can’t let go.