Here is a fingernail slice of bread, a curl
of butter that none of our lips will touch—
a shot glass of soup, hot spoonful of meat,
and one clementine still glowing in its
bright orange skin. Here on one plate
we arrange morse code of small offerings,
make space in our hearts for an envelope
of silence. This is what we try to send
at the same time each year from this
house where we live on the forest floor,
today carpeted with what leaves have shed—
And every now and then, flashes of light
sear through the canopy, bright distractions
from tracking thread through the labyrinth.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.