Janine Kelley
One Night The Moon


calls us
to the bedroom window.
I am five; you are ten.
We climb down the trellis
of waiting roses
to snow-sled in the dark
down Cedar Hill, leaving
pillows plumped then hidden
with blankets to lie for us.
The oldest, you steer
while I hunker
in front, clutching
a flashlight, the glimpses
of light hop and shoot
down the bumpy path,
playing hide and seek
with the darkness,
with the trees.
We trudge uphill again
and again, sled
as stars blossom, touch
sprays of snow, smell
the blur of evergreens.
Capsizing, you cling
to the wet warmth
of my navy coat;
your woolen hands
clasp mine. We tumble
down the hill together,
our faces all Eden,
entertaining angels
unawares.