There are twelve hours in the day, and above fifty in the night.
—Marie de Rabutin-Chantal
Nothing knew the time as she did,
but that was all she knew.
She stood at the window and watched
as snow clouds stole past like heavy-laden thieves
through a sky where nothing could hide
or be hidden,
where light steps accumulated through the hours
to vanish later in the sun.
She looked in on the sleeping children
and found them grown,
their heads and feet leagues apart,
their comforters thrown off
in their wild thrashing rest.
For each light that died, two lit up,
yet darkness endured.
So much labor led nowhere. So many words
led only to silence.
Nothing could be done at such an hour
but even that was more than she could do.