At 4am, the flower moon
is pale and brilliant in loam-dark sky.
A cloud passes in front of it
but does not alter how it shines
through the dining room window
into our darkened apartment. 

The glass vase on our wood table
holds a bouquet of white roses
eerily aglow in its light. 
Each blossom’s petals have opened
almost to the phase of decay. 
My wife and I in our forties, 

lately we discuss another baby.
Did she become pregnant tonight? 
Every month, for a while, the option 
for seeds to be sown and take root.
I have shared with her my concerns; 
do we have enough resources? 

She urges us on, undaunted. 
Hours earlier, the earth’s shadow
dimmed the moon and turned it copper.
We had just put our son to bed,
then took turns going outside
to watch the eclipse at its peak.

Back indoors, I made us dinner:
poached eggs slathered with hollandaise. 
Now I rise from bed before dawn,
addled mind fertile for worry, 
transfixed by the radiant moon
which relishes its moment of fullness.