So near holidays. For now, celebrate
their nearness. Brush the cat hair off
of coats, collect the hackberry leaves.
Winter threatens is unfair; it menaces
like sleep, like hunger. Cheer a killing
frost but mourn the lettuce, the orchid
you snap, an accident, not meaning to
be an ender. Less time now for repairs,
only so much skin left on your hands.
Ants arrive in rivulets. Psylla are born,
borne on the backs of leaves; host them
once they’ve left their elder. Make space
for succulents on the sill, where the sun
comes like clergy to bless and pass. See
them not as muscles, but a musculature.
Wake and put the cold of tea to your lips.
Grow old. See love as something like this.
