Soon the old year must join
its dwindling thread to a new
coil of days.
The daylight hours cast
their sheen on sheets of crackling ice,
while oblivious to the dueting wrens,
the chickadee darts through
the lilac. The sun, too, is blurred
by a kind of viscous film so that I think,
Give me fire, or give me water.
Tell me you love me, or tell me more.
And on those days when neither will suffice,
give me coffee and soup— two
of the things my grandmother used to say
should always be served scalding hot.
—Luisa A. Igloria
In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.