Wreath

There are no words for this year.
The lavender sits dried upon the sill.
Too many people who were loved
got killed, their faces imbued in newspaper
becoming ghostly whirligigs in the wind.

I am obsessed with round things.
Globes and magnifying glasses and mandalas and
wreaths. The arced pine and holly
and birch twig
join hands and dance over my stoop.

This year feels old and monstrous,
like the Ziz that beat its wings, like the
Leviathan that cracked the seas, like the
Behemoth that ate up
everything.

The mandrake is done, its magic
crumbling, the sage exhausted;
in my bed an old nightmare and I got reacquainted.
The journal pages have been crinkled
with tears.

It’s almost finished.
Snow fell, the trees have dropped
all their past creations and longings.
Tomorrow is just over the horizon.
I’m ready to drain this cup of cold coffee,

make something new.

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