By Marge Piercy
A row of tall skinny candles burns
quickly into the night
air, the shames raised
over the rest
for its hard work.
Darkness rushes in
after the sun sinks
like a bright plug pulled.
Our eyes drown in night
thick as ink pudding.
When even the moon
starves to a sliver
of quicksilver
the little candles poke
holes in the blackness.
A time to eat fat
and oil, a time to gamble
for pennies and gambol
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My Thursday morning was not eventful apart from a trip to Safeway because we were out of everything I might want to put on a bagel at lunchtime. In the afternoon, we walked to the beach, where there was a huge flock of coots and not a few ducks and geese, with an eagle watching all of us from high up in one of the trees. (The cats have toy mouse gifts.)
Then we came home for my usual Thursday night chat group (all six of us tonight), followed by the last night of Chanukah (we exchanged books) and The Masked Singer we missed Wednesday. Now we're watching the endgame of The Crown, which is really making me cringe -- Camilla the Good Parent! Carole Middleton the Schemer! Bleah!
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