Snow in the East already
Sopping the overcast streets,
But here rain as usual
Between crisp, leafy days.
And we slouch towards solstice
And holidays
And the traditions
Of our nineteenth century
Postcards.
Tires on the wet pavement lisp
And slur and hiss
As evening drops
And fevers lie in bed
And angels might be near
But we’ve been told no
Except in our stories
And Mary remains silent
Until the darkest day.
The calendar turns again
With all souls and saints,
And the days begin
To line up, readying themselves
For the adventure.
But I am back
In Protestant days
—Four bare walls—
And a longing for angels.
(All Hallows’ Evening, 2011)
