and the firmament sheweth his handywork. —Psalms 19:1
Sometimes, late night, the middle of January
maybe, I get home, everything’s quiet, the cows
aren’t in the pasture out back, all the lights
turned off as far as I can see, the packed snow
crunches underfoot as I step away from the car
and slam the door, but not quite a crunch, almost
a kind of squeak, it’s that cold, and then, cold
as it is, I stand beside the car and lift my head
to look up at the sky, not a cloud, a high wind’s
blown the heavens clear, and all the stars are weaving
the way I’d weave heading across the yard
and up the stairs, the warm air, the faint trace of
heating oil, the rumpled bed at the end of the hall,
but now the stars dance their little dance and,
my God, it’s cold, and I’m here, and that’s
just about the best a man could ever care about.
Allen Hoey has published two novels and five collections of poems, most recently Country Music (2008). In 2009 he will publish a new collection of poems and a mystery. He teaches at Bucks County Community College and directs the Bucks County Poet Laureate Program.