After the leaves fall,
I can see the neighbors’ house.
People I don’t know who live
on the other side of the woods.
When walking my field with the dogs before bed,
I notice someone stays up late,
a distant window glowing
through the latticework of bare, black branches,
the lamplight mimicking a low moon rising.
There’s something about a well-lit window,
far off, silent, shining in the country darkness,
that stirs the imagination.
Is someone reading, seducing a lover,
nursing a sick child?
The shadow of a woman draws the drapes.
Every life is its own drama—
a plot that arcs,
heading toward the denouement,
like the moon, a well-lit porthole,
rolling toward morning
on an ocean of stars.
As I circle,
mystery stays with me—
the path of the moon and stars,
the way of the lit window,
shining for a moment
before the curtain closes.
