This winter Sunday we fold away our memories
Into their Christmas boxes.
The wooden soldiers and needlepoint bears,
The solemn choirboys and smiling angels
Will huddle in their attic beds until,
Called upon next year, they awaken our memories anew.

We hunker down before the bare tree
Cover our heads with woolen afghans and
Close our eyes tight against the winter just begun.
The sun shines bright and cold today,
While we hide from its false cheer,
Afraid of the gray rain that follows.

You speak of hope and cinnamon tea. I drink my coffee grimly.
You polish the silver and plan the garden.
I bury my face in David Foster Wallace, Incomprehensible, suicidal.
Like armies marching in opposite directions,
We battle winter in our separate ways, but not each other.

from The Journal of My Seventieth Year, Sunday, January 3, 2021