The events themselves

I can’t remember,

only the scent of lilac on taffeta,

her warm breath

and the rise and fall of my head

on her bosom.

Hope

is material:

glass and plastic syphoning

salt and secrets into

withered veins;

flesh and fur huddled

by the heater vent

Isaiah 60: 19-22

We are the branch of your planting,

grasping the earth

until it is too much with us:

soil on our leaves, arching petals

into cups to hoard the rain.

Lights are dimmed, so candles are lit.

Darkness comes sooner and fades slower

as cold seeps longer.

Worn language won’t stick.

Like used duct tape, our repast

chatter cannot fix

what COVID broke. Our politics

a wild animal, escaped,

trampling the vineyard

underfoot. No mulled wine, or

small talk, will tame this boar.