Childhood prepares us for this,
The wet, the grey,
The last heartbeats of December,
The sound of wind and water
through barebranch and pinetop.
It need not be said
To hold tight to what you love,
Only to be added
That we will all be called to
The lineup of ghosts,
To pick out the saintly from the slothful
and take our own place,
With only ourselves to know
Where we belong.
