This year I’ll feel the light of the tomb on my own bones

the birds of winter are resting in resilient decadence or I’m not resting when there’s so little time left for resistance

When I was a boy, I considered becoming a nun because I didn’t want to shave part of my scalp

Into their once full garden that’s now/ close to barren, two ancient nuns shuffle/ along looking for a few late autumn blossoms/ to paint their lives.

Be praised, O Lord, for this bit of mystery, / which lifts, which lightens.

Forgive me. A mother can only hold so many scars.