Toward Morning
Waking toward morning,
And the last light of the moon filling the windows,
And the common wind-before-dawn stirring the shade,
I look long and long at your sleep
And listen to your moist breath rise and fall.
I cup with softest care my fist upon your shoulder.
If there are tears, they are strong and hidden.
Perhaps there are.
I am afraid that you are still gone.
That this is still the dream.