Seasonal Diptych

Solstice, End of Day

I’ve tried to forgive the vacant sky
its fleeting glint—

tried and failed
to accept another season

of garden-rot, silvered
bouquets of frost-stunned weeds.

Too stubborn, I think,
to name this fault.

Too desperate: sick to death
of heavy boots and sleet-faded streets,

how the sun falls back
through its trapdoor

and vanishes like
the men in my family

who’ve died or disappeared.
It’s winter and what more

can be said of absence?
Afternoons, I find them

waiting in mirrors until
their faces give way

to mine: dumb trick
I fall for in half-hearted light

which dovetails
cloud-break and canopy,

little black stream—
how shadow gives way

to shadow, each darkness
fleeing its source.

November Spell I

People on couch
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