The house, lit by moonlight
on the snow, glows inside
like a huge jewel, a moonstone
or opal.
The whole house
shimmers with its freight
of living souls, and the souls
of disembodied memory.
I lie inside my warm bed in the cold
brightness, dreaming of those
who can no longer dream
of anyone, who have become
motes of dust
in the air, those universal
dreamers.
You would imagine,
looking into the next room,
that a lamp was lit,
but I know it is only
the light of the moon
westering, nearly full,
over the snow.
I am not wanting
or asking anything
impossible; it’s just
that I can’t help
thinking about it.