recent observations, december.

nova cantica.

Children fit like chess pieces into the last empty train seats,

wedged between fellow travelers who are slumped over the piles of coats in their laps,

their foreheads leaning against greasy windowpanes,

weary and exposed under the harsh lights of the commuter rail.

We snake through marshes cloaked in fog and a sun we can’t see starts to set.

My paper grocery bag, filled with juniper clippings and waxy privet berries, is perched between canvas carryons and rolling suitcases on the overhead luggage rack.

With every lurch, it threatens to tumble.

Babies cant themselves off their mothers thighs, balancing heavy heads on craning necks, to catch the twinkling eyes of a stranger.

Matris in gremio.

In the morning, at home, steam puffs curl southward, billowing from crumbling chimneys across silver-grey rooftops that match the color of the sky.

I hang paper stars from window frames,

and tie a ribbon around my wayworn branches,

to make a lopsided talisman for a steel apartment door.

A juniper berry falls loose and rolls down the dingy hallway.

In dulci jubilo.