March Midnight Window

Cold glass.
One white palm against
a March midnight window.
The hour is struck.
In blackness, an indistinct
day is made another.

Clouds seclude the moon. To
any rare nocturnal souls at other windows,
the lithe, pale "L" of my hand might be
an alabaster letter,
a sign to other sleepless.

Each, in eisegesis,
divines its meaning in
their own midnight hearts --
whether love or loss I do not know.