Christmas Lights

cobweb-thin filaments joining us,
one to one, to everyone, as
the copper gleams, the
burnished glow trembles at
the touch, the messages,
hammered out, so, then
sleeping, through the long
afternoon--no letters in
the post--so little, but
longed for, the ordinary
expressions

so, fields lie fallow, after
the rains, the stumps
yet to be pulled up and
where, she asks, will
the Christmas lights be hung
to light the way of the child?

the wind blows hot and
cold, all four seasons
in the same day,
marked with crosses,
crossways, the crossword
worked over at half-past
ten, the telephone
rang twice, then stopped

thrust into abrupt silence
she stares, distracted, at
her image, replicated,
stamp-like, over and again,
so easily torn