Pots of poinsettia on the front porch,
mint stragglers by the steps. A sky

like the rim of a cup edged with a line
of pines. And we, looking up from 

the well where days swirled one 
into the other, waited for the first 

flint of light from a star or the points 
of a crescent to steer by. Despite 

the fixedness of our position, time felt 
like a pitcher we would never finish 

pouring. It glowed like stained glass 
in morning light, like an augur at night. 

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