These short days are really messing
with me, the way the sun
goes to bed before dinner.
It’s company leaving
before our conversation is over,
cups of tea still steeping in water.
I try deep breathing, slow
the number of breaths just in case
God is counting. He knows
it wasn’t me who played with
the earth’s turn. Man is to blame
for the time, the addiction of looking.
Last night the moon rose like a cupped
hand slowly bringing hope to the sky
and I drank it in without getting up.
Comfort is when, like a child
tucked in, the sun’s body still
shows under covers.