Oh. by Seth
What is it that,
as day turns to night, gray turns to white,
ground turns to cotton at the fading of the sun?
What turns the midnight hour to noon,
but the moon,
hanging, a protector, in the sky?
Burns sleeping eyes with half dreamt smile –
you’d walk ten miles
’till fuzzy head met frigid pillow.
What is it that
chills to the bone,
leaves me alone
beneath deliverers of cold?