Shadows seem longer this year,
sun barely grazing the shoulder of the planet.
Like a bullet.
Or a hurried kiss on the way to work.
Or an arrow pointed at an apple
atop our heads.

We buy groceries,
hang pink carnations on the
Christmas tree.

One child goes to the mall.
She has begun to wear lipstick, a
bruised metallic like old snow.
Like the Viking guy they found
dead, indefinitely preserved
in permafrost.

She believes this to be beautiful.

I don't argue.

The other walks to Joshua's Pond.
He will scream and hoot,
march through brittle reeds
with other boys.
Practice his swordsmanship with cattails,
marvel at his growing strength,
conquer the shores of the lake.

Forget about the homework
patiently waiting on his neglected desk.

He believes I have forgotten, too.

The painted summer chairs
we left in the yard
sit in a frozen row.
As pews, silent beneath
the high night sky.