Time

I let the days read like a pendulum
drawing an endlessly open parenthesis
to hang on gravity's mouth.
She breathes in measured motions
a mediation of falling
and blazing forward on spring-loaded hope.
I let the days read like a pendulum
trusting the rounded measurements above my head.

On Christmas day

you can see a child's laughter
through cracked palms,
Beat out the
and overzealous precipitation
with a field of candle-flames refusing to die.
And when you try to sing
there is nothing but miracles in your throat.





(after writing this poem I had to listen to this song
and yes. I do know how cheese and non-xmassy that is)