Tonight's presentation is darkness,
uncountable stars under clouds,
squinting at the Christmas tree lights,
boxing on television.
Memory is a little bit of a conspiracy
between your head and your heart.
Days diary into years,
years edit themselves
into a box with photographs.
This is the shortest day
of the year, the longest night.
There's the Julian calendar,
but you have to wait four centuries
to gain those three days from
the surplus of eleven minute bundles.
Chances are, you won't make it that long.
The person who says, "Too many years"
"Too many daisies" or "Too many stars"
hasn't made mayonnaise from scratch,
read a poem that made her cry or scream,
or stacked the perfect pile of firewood.
It is a cloak, all right.
You feel it. The darkness.
Then in the morning,
nothing but precise light.