A clear night, the winter stars
seated: the bolt tightens a half-turn,
the water’s gone hard, the bear’s in bed.
All’s pure. The cold demands it.
A star for every wish we ever had
and many we have yet to make,
stars sharp enough to scratch glass,
bright enough to read by.
To feel lost — that’s human, fear not.
So few parts per million. Two?
Two left standing in a white field
opposite the stars.