Gravity

The moon is a widow buttoning herself
into the black dress of the sky.

Below her,
the sea climbs the shore on its knees,
dragging its hem of dead shells,
begging for one touch
from that cold white face.

What a humiliating thing,
to be made of longing.

The roots know.

All winter they grope blindly
through the grave-dark earth,
fingering stones,
worms,
the buried ribs of trees,
looking for water.