We ponder the blue frost, December chill,
and the final, boxed days.

How the caves of our bones grow mossy and ache
with each returning tide. The pine boughs

layer the mantel, drop their needles
in a slow tick, a green surrender.

We all release molecules of self
as hours unfurl. What will be new

in the year to come? More or less
spasms of hate, dissolution of truth?

More thawing ice, savage fires, muted birds?
Loss is inherent in the pattern.

Like the blue frost starring the branches
of the backyard trees, we’ll be gone,

sinking into the earth or evaporating,
curled in a sea trough with hesitant light.

The earth is not hungry for us.
The furies take no time to measure.