yesterday was today all over again:
The change that
from surrender
weeps salted tears
is December's gift;
for, in the cold
we've but ourselves
and each other's yesterdays'
papers and thoughts.
And our
our own warmth,
our fear,
our children left
in warm sweaters
alone –
their little hands clutched
at their sides…
a fire
from which to learn
to dry our eyes.
And then,
even in absence of
icy paths forged
crossed the cheek,
we're cold
for we've but ourselves
and yesterday was today all over again.
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