Orion

The moon’s absence rains down a gentle shadow
hold of the trees, fills the day with night,
fills me with the calm beneath the stars that glow coldly
and welcome the warm, white ghost of my breath
with invisible hands.

Every year Orion looks down,
armed to attack,
his arrow notched and ready,
his belt shining.

I prefer to think of him as standing guard, his arrow
	aimed
not at the bull and not at us below.