Lace appears in quiet rhythms
of silence and beatitude.
From summer to snow
in the blink of a curious eye.
What leaves remain
make a fist against the ice.
Children gather in the street,
try to save the velveteen
from tire tracks and climate shifts.
Aging quickly follows suit.
I open all the mini-blinds,
wander in the marveling
as if our soles can heat
cold marble of this church.
Suddenly we’re pressed like
homemade rolls in the lumpy
pan of an unmade bed,
rising to whatever warmth
attends the razoring chill.
Our toes two magnets
fitting like two batteries,
kneading in the light graze
of a late pink rose
ready to float and fall
to seas of cardamom dust.
This is the hour to huddle
with sticks of our bones.
This is the hour
to ask no questions and watch.
