The dark time of year.
Odd things are black with frost
but, below bare trees,
the earth is sapping green.
Weeds spring in autumn here
when rain comes to seared ground.
With water as fresh as life
I take vitamin D and watch
the light change on this
cloud-spangled shortest day.
Perhaps I’ll never again desire summer
when the hot winds swirl our fear with
tinder leaves, when plants bake brittle
and feed fires with tempers unheard of.
It’s hard to celebrate all of that
but give me your fruit pudding
and your evergreen hope
and I’ll deck them out
with paper stars.
(I sat down to write a hopeful poem. Sorry about that.)