A light lunar dusting of frost is on the tent,
And it's warm, beside you, in this sleeping bag
Made for two, but--isn't this always the way--
The coffee you brewed so deftly over the fire
Is reasserting itself, driving me into the whiter world
To tip-toe from stone to stone. And after a few minutes
I call to you, try to wake you up, whispering at first,
Then louder, more insistent: there's no moon, come see.
And from the cacophony of stars I hear how passions
May conflict. Quick, come look before the moon rises
And bleeds it all away in its soft blare, in its great
Now and forever of slow-gliding stillness, telling us,
Emphatically, that all there is to love is stony light.
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