by Edward Lee
In my garden
I speak to the night,
throw my voice
into the moonless dark,
not looking for,
or expecting a reply,
simply wishing to add
something of myself
to the endless darkness,
my words turning
to winter, clouding
in the air,
and disappearing, disappearing,
the night taking it all
as its own,
and I turn
and reenter my home,
my skin prickling
as it moves from cold
to warm.