My pots are packed for New York City and were loaded into the car before the sunset. The low sun back lit the ornamental grasses in the front garden. The dusk swaddled the cattle across the street while Warren walked Luna along the road and around the pond. The night is a gift. I can sit down now that all the pots are wrapped.
December
The year dwindles and glows
to December’s red jewel,
my birth month.
The sky blushes,
and lays its cheek
on the sparkling fields.
Then dusk swaddles the cattle,
their silhouettes
simple as faith.
These nights are gifts,
our hands unwrapping the darkness
to see what we have.
The train rushes, ecstatic,
to where you are,
my bright star.
— Carol-Ann Duffy