Sky’s stripes — blue, gray, & yellow —
mirror the pattern of winter tights
I wear for warmth on a California bright
December morning, furnace set to low
sixties at night as if under mounds
of fleece & billows of comforters
three neighborhood girls in one room
could possibly feel a twinge of cold,
would wake to consider what numbs us —
mix-ups that scramble taken-for-granted
love — hurrah for patio chairs outside
& patience to talk it through, how if not
for you (& you & you & you) none of us
might for this long at least have survived.
No comments:
Post a Comment