For the days when the lights switch on and off by themselves

For the days when the lights switch on and off by themselves

and all the voice messages are from enemies

or other people

Only the good old days

lie

between verses

we have already written

For the fruit of fear in each December

Will this be the year

earth refuses

to forgive us with a blush of green

For the assumptions

of next winter’s chill

and for the quiet days in between

Your face mingled

in the poinsettias

after a brief rain