Carrying sickness when you’re old 

is not like the halcyon days 

of soup and game shows, even if 

there’s shag rugs and red juice. 

There’s an added weight of knowing 

some dying cells will never be replaced 

and there are limited hugs left you. 

Also, you have to pull your own blankets

and hope they’re enough to bury 

worries of whatever else you’re not doing.

There’s plenty to fill the quiet but 

little to draw you closer to the next season, if you’re to make it there. 

They haven’t named the moon I see yet,

the one that’s in-between super states.

I’m between moods at the moment,

or more accurately, beside them

and it’s a dangerous feeling,

one of shadow and hard edges.

.

Night is a relief, when things are done

enough for the time being and I can rest,

though my heart doesn’t. 

.

I follow the moonscape over the snow,

without thinking about angles or time 

and for the time it takes to count 

a dozen stars, I breathe a little softer. 

I’m not wishing for tomorrow, just that

yesterday will fade a bit more. 

Bits of poinsettias on the kitchen table.

Some cookies and truffles left.

Dustings of sugar left on the tray.

.

A few snowflakes swirl in the frigid gusts.

The hills are growing farther away.

Dustings of salt and snow on the tires.

.

It’s a new day but inside, old packaging. 

Files of stories waiting, forgotten.

Dustings of memories just out of sight. 

There’s admittedly a little thrill

when I stumble on the river’s name

in a poem or a story. 

I pass it every week, 

its tributaries every day,

and while I often bemoan my town,

I love my valley 

even though there’s racism and poverty 

and not enough art. 

I love the stark winters

and the lush summers, 

the roadside stands of farmers 

every few miles. Abundance 

in what feels like end times.

Comfort, quiet and strong,

like mountains that take eons to move.

Pies on countertops 

and forests every few miles. 

The colors of the sky broken up

by hills and trees, the reflections 

shimmering in dozens of creeks

like the sequins of an aged showgirl,

slowly shaking her stuff. 

There’s little bustle along the river

and the trails are usually overgrown 

but plain enough to follow,

like we do when we repeat history. 

The river is long enough 

to hold rambling stories and

if you are lucky, it will carry away 

worries as easily as fallen feathers.