Waking in Winter

This time of year it is not when I wake
so much as what I wake to,
as tonight the rain, or is it hail, pelting the roof,
and the last cracklings of the fireplace,
to you curled beside me as you have been
almost every night for the past ten years,
your breathing deep and even,
you who on most nights would wake
to the sound of moonlight entering the room,

to both of us under this comforter safe and dry,
and the memory of a friend years ago
who said, Nobody has it all,
and to the thought in the dark—
the window above us leaking cold,
and your bare shoulder inches away—
that may be true, but this is most of it.