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