Betsy Robin Schwartz

The shaded lamp on the end table

glows like the moon

calling through clouds.

The cat is a twisted curl

on the braided rug.

You sleep and snore on the couch

while wine-colored pillows

support your neck and shoulders.

I take a pause from my daily crosswording

(unseen by beast and man)

and puzzle:

Is the wind twitching the pin oak branches

like kitty’s bird-dream whiskers?

Does the sun outside rise and set

as regularly as your chest?

Can spiders weave their homes

in mazes so delicate and strong?