Moving house

There are days without poetry

The snow is still steady

Glowing sky rose and blue

Some echo of light but

Mainly prose tonight

The loosely tied wedding

Bouquet dried and surviving 

This last of winters 

Cut flowers cut from it

Love is a list 

That does not rhyme or reason 

It is bullets down the page

Short names for old treasures

And the agony of strike-throughs

Love is a daily bread

Seeded and sour 

Feeding ritual and sacrifice

In the dark space of our home

These are days of prayer

And prayer is not a poem