Stringing the Cards
i.m. Leonard Cohen 1934-2016
I can’t keep track of each fallen robin flapping to the hearth,
each Virgin Mother and child descending to the grate,
the snowmen, coal-eyed and carrot-nosed, scrolling
in the log-burner’s heat, cards curling to reveal the ink blots
of Leonard or Suzanne – the distant, the near-forgotten, almost tethered
by tiny red and green pegs to silver tinsel strung to corners
of a room, fragrant with tea and oranges,
they or you have never seen, and never will.
I don’t even think of you that often.