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Oceanographer
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When December Comes
The bread I called my own has turned to crumbs.
I woke and missed the setting of the sun.
Every winter, when December comes,
it's pinched between a finger and a thumb.
I turned the blackened coin on its head.
I listened to the crow, and what it said.
All the lines were crossed, and trains were wrecked
while you were spinning in that shining dress.
I picked the broken arrow from the quiver.
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I found a place to sleep among the silver.
The skies belied the struggling of wills.
Your eyes untied the trouble on my pillow.
And petals unfold.
Lies get untold.
Sins get forgave.
Something's awakening.
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