The
moon loves her windowsill
as
it leans there on elbows
washed
clean in silver light,
listening
to the song
of
summer crickets.
But
I prefer her door,
its
wood coarse and gray
like
sliced soda bread,
its
boards seasoned
with
the touch of hands
belonging
once to a woman
who
was lost in the length
of
her crow-black hair.
[From "A Barn's Dowry" by Wendy A. Howe]