The air stings our eyes like
an onion just cut,
the sting of a slap,
a small oven burn—
like tears squeezed back until
mother’s casket was
lowered, the cables that
grimaced and squeaked.
It’s not just the cold that
surrounds us and stings, but
the notion of yet one more
winter itself.
How many Christmas trees
have we cut down?
The years grow, and hover like
breath we exhale—
gone to droplets, small
personal clouds.
But do you hear distant waves
pounding the shore?
Can you smell Christmas, or
fresh ginger bread?
Do you remember rolling
in grass—
a time when you
studied the shapes
in the clouds?
Look there—the ocean,
a navy blue line
dark as a uniform,
perfectly pressed.
The wind walks us quickly toward
the gray cliffs.
