Light

slips through our

grasp…

Each hour of each day —

paler, thinner,

more threadbare than

its yesterday.

Plumed

in solar flares,

our tongues regale each other

with half-remembered

tales of milder days —

songs of Crow and Centaurus,

and the Great Bear,

of the Herdsman

and his starry flock

spread across the night sky’s

vast backdrop.

Frost-touched,

we’ll pause together

at Winters’ gate and,

reminiscing,

conjure

light.

 

— C.Birde, 11/18