Let the moth muster some enthusiasm
         for the streetlight. Let the tap run cold.

Let the laundry lie limp on the line. Let indigo
         bruise the hillside. Let dust-stung and withered.

Let wind be the reason. Let July. Let clouds marshal
         over the stars. Let the night be good.

Let the dreams be merciful and full of snow.
         Let rain. Let rain. Let the lilies close if they can.

And let thunder arrive with rattles and drums
         and aspens lashing the windows. Let lightning

find the tallest spear of grass. The fire that burns
         the sheets casts such easy and welcoming light.

Traci Brimhall, “Lullaby at 102°,” Oxford American (Summer 2017)