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]