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.