MARY CRESSWELL

Ingathering

We didn’t think
it would happen yet,
not now or soon.
Nevertheless,
there it was: news as
ugly as the word
imploding the evening.
Shall I light a candle
against the next demand?
No. We’ll wait a minute,
watch the fireflies feint and fade:
blips of self-inflicted shine,
falling inward like the summer,
useless as words to lighten loss.

___________
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