It's not often
a poem wakes me
in the night

stirs me out of
unconsciousness to
speak to me

it's never been about
you
or us-
it's never said a
word to me that's pulled
me from the very moment that
I'm living in

but here with you,
here where winter
is mid-stretch
and the Ash Groves seem
quieter than
ever

I'm waking over
and over
and over,
my love,
because
you're speaking
to me
and poems keep
waking me in the
night.