The Last Word On Nothing

Life has fallen so quiet lately
that
light takes on the quality of sound
when there is none.

I sleep with my palm up
toward the ceiling, toward the sky
and summon the moon into my hand.

I know when I am holding it
by its lightness
by its light.
I can feel it
only when
I open my eyes
In the dark.

I skied the other day, early
along the river
and across the fields.
The snow was new and silent
and three coyotes
paced me on the trail.

The last stopped
then peed
and we stared at each other
a long moment
before she limped on
letting me know:
she would never run
on anyone’s behalf
but her own.

I walk when fog comes
and makes even small sound gigantic.
A flock of ducks vanishes
as if it had never been,
but its wing whistles
linger in the air, drifting like ice crystals.

At home again,
I can hear the dog breathe across the room.
Each sigh draws weight from my body
until I feel light as nothing at all
and when I hold out my hand
there she is again:
the moon
in my skin.