Oh for these last gray days and new moons. For Orion’s belt in the north, in the night. For our yard leaning on its side and the papery brown fronds hanging down. For the milky sun and messy watercolor blues, for spring’s tentative tracing of the dance floor with its shoes. For this day I sit looking out, looking in, feeling the same: a stirring in these limbs the color of bone and moss-matted stone, when all the world seems draped in gray. Oh how the last bit feels hardest and the time, the days, the sum of our lives slows. How hard the times between the living and the dead we wait. This Saturday I feel it leaking it out of me, a black hole on the calendar where the moon should be.