Why I Startled

During storms, I used to inch along the rafters in the barn
to perch in a windowless dormer that overlooked the pond.

Curtains of rain would trawl across, bristling the surface
before driving on. I'd crouch there eavesdropping, absorbing

the chatter between sheet metal and falling water until
my head was full of rain. Today, your voice sounds like this.

In December, the great room dim and full of embers, I'd drag
a chair across the floorboards to press my cheek against a pane.

Facing sideways, squinting, frost would blossom and clear in time
with my breathing, until Sarah came and shielding me from mother

set me down on the floor again. A clouded glass that blurs the line
of earth and sky belongs to her. Today, my eyes work like this.

The way you stole into my room this morning and, leaning over
set your hand against my shoulder, I thought you were my mother.

I was just remembering the weight of her beside me, the shock
of the mattress heaving, how I understood without her speaking.

Your hand inside my gown, the metal pressed against my skin
I felt a shiver coming on and saw the leaves begin to turn, upwards

pale faces towards the sky.