Thirty Below Poem by Diane Lee Moomey

Beneath the borealis we are wrapped
in down and Dacron, glove in glove. Our love
tonight's an argument about Intent:
you name this radiance Divine, with rapt

attention point out Heavens's lights, and speak
of Gabriel enthroned above the Pole,
angelic trumpeting, a shimmering
that knows Itself and you. I must critique,

and speak of plasma and electrons blind
as stones on pavement; senseless proton, photon,
solar winds, and on I talk. You balk;
we're kept apart by more than gloves tonight.

I think I'd give the whole of what is mine
to hear a single word from your Divine.