Tuesday, December 14, 2021


There are few 
to no leaves 
this nadir of December—

yet the wind is still playing 
in the limbs 
of the sycamores.

To witness 
just this 
on an afternoon street 

is stranger than unvarnished truth,
more nourishing 
than food or drink.

How lucky, for an instant or two—
to find oneself 

standing downstream 
from the brutal effusion 
of tomorrow's mad mysteries 

and sitting on the cap  
of the jar 
of human history.

At least, so far—at least 
til the very next breeze 

and gratitude's 
vast volume
must be cataloged anew.