for Cathy

Sweep the night
              sweep the night into your hair

The owl in his house
			                of air

	low, wraps a caul
	                 round your skin

        epiphytes begin to bloom

At night, all the trees 
					grow rain 

Only you 
            walking roads 
                              stay dry

Skeins of dark
          skeins of dark tangled in the stars 

Frogs in the valleys
			              clay jars

full of night, their drops fall 
				      to the sky

—Kelly Morse