Tuesday, December 21, 2021


For all the anticipation, 
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, 

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.