I recovered from the lake
after it had recovered the sun
setting upon its wide glare. The day turned
into water and then toward night.
It was summer and in the north;
the days were long and as a child,
my mother put me to bed with restless birds
in the trees outside my window.
Years away, you stood with a southern moon
stuttering light across the cold river behind your house,
and then through a city window
where you leaned over the steaming sink
and lost your hands in the soap and dishes.
I’m sure I could see you
either through my window
or from outside yours, my darling,
my only one. Hanging moon
in the oak-thick hill, only one
of this wet winter, only one of this world.
Beth Anstandig
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/love-poem-written-for-restless-birds/
