You can still see Vega
over the garage roof,
even in early December,
when the Winter King
is laboring up the eastern sky,
leaning on his stick,
and cursing the housetops;
and though Orion shakes
his shaggy wondering head,
after his long summer blindness.
She's still there, and the writ of her blessing still runs.
And beyond, beyond,
is the white lob of the Moon,
drawing kiltered squares
through all the blanched windows of the world:
here and across the mountains,
where the road outruns its colors,
and a pale face is turned to the pale sky.