The Smithereens

Sun sulking

in a bitter

overcoat. December’s runt

of daylight’s litter.

Like seconds of a crooked clock

the smithereens

of time drip from the tips

of evergreens,

signs and signals

to embrace.

What lights the moments

only grace?

Are these, you wonder,

proof of God?

And all around you wild things

nod.

It’s true, they say, there is

another life but it’s within

this one. If they were

opposites who could determine

the one that is

more real?

Or how we’ll last? Like trees

that cast their own memorial.