the end
is so sudden;
we are thrust
at the future, like drunks
at grim dawn.
And the bracing scents
of pine and fir needles
offer little consolation
when the sky here
is almost as besotted
as the ground.
Back in summer, we
felt certain—in autumn,
unconfined—
the hand we held
was perfect; the love we had
was sound.
Now, starved for light,
in a surplus
of seclusion—
amid gift cards,
bright carols, infusions
of wine—all we want
is to find our way back;
all we need
is more time.
