It’s early morning./
The sun/
sleeps in./

In this winter farmland,/
he,/
lazy like me,/
has not yet shucked
his blanket.

But the moon,/
bright,/
woman-full
and luscious,/
works her way/
through cold/
spindly/
cottonwood-maple-willow/
tree fingers./

They reach skyward
to cup her/
and hold her/
and uphold her/
longer/
until Apollo/
can wake up.