On this night of broken glass,
of fragile safety
held by a too-slender thread,
the yellow sun slips over the edge
into the dark half of the year,
leaves behind scattered shards
of steel-sharp, star-sharp light
in water buckets
and ice crisp in the furrowed fields.
On this night of broken,
moon floats above the edge
of the dark line between now and when
the bone-pale shoots will curl
their fingers through the cold earth,
like the dead resuscitated.