For Lisel Mueller

2 am
- awakened by Moon,
my hungry, dilute calico.
I rise, half asleep, half a sound
paws and feet on the floor, to give
her canned herring.
Snow still falls outside the window.

2:10 am
I find myself
floating into a world of words.
Yours.  Arctic air fills my room;
I am trying to listen to snow.

4 am
The front door opens, almost asleep
I rise to greet my son home from Florida.
“Did you have a good time?”
One week and he’s taller, shining in the foyer light.
“Dad gave me the key to his house.
 It was sweet.” he says and drifts downstairs,
drifting that sounds like snow.