It’s been cloudy for days. We feel so gray.
The snow keeps falling. But for an hour on
Thursday night the clouds part and the moon,
almost full, makes everything bright—the ice
like diamonds stuck in the gutters, the garbage
can wheels unable to move, happy to be at rest,
the nose of the deer as it nibbles the apple you
tossed for it to find. Our dog’s eyes, suddenly
full with her ancient bottom of wolf and her
irrepressible love for everything. Breathing in
the cold, the inside of time is close, like a story
held open till the center of all story shows its
face. And every crest of snow seems blue, yet
nothing is blue. The moon so bright it makes
us look for the sun. The way one honest hand
lifting a particular lie makes us look for truth in
the bottom of history. And the sun keeps spilling
its light off the moon, off us, off our dog whose
breath drops it like silver dust on the snow. Now
the clouds return as if the night is a soft magician
closing its robe. In the days that follow, I am com-
forted to know that the truth of all that keeps us
going is just beyond the closing robe. So powerful
it can spill through a torn heart and light our way.
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