The Slow Moon page image

Winter Bath

(For Michael)

By Elizabeth Cox
The Southern Review, 2007

A gust of wind at windows or at door
Mounts a whistling winter music played
By December's sky and northern icy core
Children's boots and mortal moon allayed.
I love you in the warm tub of the night,
Here, where we learned to hide our wings
And if you stumble in your lovely flight
I will not think you less, or feel disdain.
All reason hangs without a wailing sound
But love locks up the chest and finds a friend.
What love is love without relayed compound,
What great need have we for something not to end.

No end in sight, for your dear heart will see my mind,
My tongue will love you; as will my eyes, though blind.