Near Midnight

The tea
in my cup
has gone cold
near these abandoned poems
and the pen that has written them.

I sip the sweetness
without heating
the dark comfort again;
letting the unwanted
losses empty into my mouth.

It is a long ritual
to read the words aloud,
scratch out a word or two,
and surrender to the call
of midnight
and the longing
for the false hope
of sleep.

I pick up the cup,
wander through the kitchen
like a dream,
and climb the stairs
to the singleness
of my bed.

Potage

The simple menu
is bread and hearty potage
made of the abundance of the land
nearest us.

We light the candles,
bow our heads,
and look one another in the eye
long enough to notice gratitude
for the loving kindness
present at the table.

Laugh with me.
Sip table wine.
Tell me a story
to sustain me
another day.