patience

what did you think?
you were entitled to
something picturesque,
dramatic, poetic,
anything other
than november clouds
in april mornings?

a premature spring solstice
reminding you
that you're not going
anywhere

another night and
the furnace's simple hum
protecting ten little toes
in the next room

somewhere in the silence
the clouds break long enough
for you to see a red star
low in the west,
blinking, as tree limbs
block the view
for a second

sending a beam of light
older than anyone you know
anything you've read
anywhere you've been

the furnace eases off,
the boy stirs,
and another dawn
hides behind the gray