Luces

“…With wings as drifted snow, with eyes as flame.” ~ Basque carol

At midnight we lit six
morning glory firework wands

and watched their dying etch
brief swirls in the dark garden,

their passing light so swift
the movement of our wrists

could not even deal out all
the looped letters of our names—

What could we do with a whole
extra second added to the year’s

last minute? Each orange fizzling stub
dwindled to a stream of ash. In the morning,

not even a trace of their scattering
remained in the stubbled grass.

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