Fog

The orphanage at the top of the hill had no infants for us.
The windows were dark.
There was whispering on the other side of the door.
We waited for days but no one came.

The crib in this room is empty.
The rocking chair has not rocked.
The tiny clothes we bought lie untouched.

Our house is as foreign as a forest.
I trail a cold sheet of moonlight
from room to vacant room.

Tonight even the trees have no roots.
They wander estranged and distraught,
twisting their white branches,
crossing themselves in the air.