Waxing Crescent

this same spot
where the old table was
where we sat, peering up
hoping to see it
counting stars
wondering at the thick, painted sky
black as soot
black as sleep
black as a cold hearth
its embers, long dead
but this night
this cold, clear, cloudless night
yields no moon

I doubt it exists
though I saw it glimmer, a wink
between a clutch of leaves
(their story almost over)

I search the sky
as if each star is a gift owed to me
a found treasure, plucked
from the dark canopy of space
to wear at my throat