Unlocking

by Lynn Valentine

Never a dreaming sleep
or sleep at all now.
Instead the fumble and fuss of opening
the door at 3am, being surprised
by April snow, while the old black dog circles
the lawn, his blind eyes focussed
on younger days; days patrolling the farm.

He takes his time
to make sure that the house is filled
with a good raw draught and the moon with it
until all the rooms roll
to the lustre of light,
the affirmation of cold.
How can you sleep    
in these bleached hours,
this porous night?  
The door left open.