Moonlight’s yellow blanket
covers trees, leaves cling
to branches like lovers,
the grass too is losing its green.
It’s my pulse that keeps me
awake at an hour when even
the sleepless have shut their eyes.
I used to think I was a romantic.
Now I know the truth.
I stare out the window and hope
at least the wind will stir.
Or I wander to the bedroom
where my children sleep
and I listen to soft snores
and whimpers, music enough.
I know someday my heart
will seize up, grabbed
by an invisible fist
as my father’s was that first day
of winter when nothing
was green and all the leaves
had finished their falling.