Here in the crook
of December’s arm,
everything curves
like a road leading to
a home not yet known
but ever longed for.
And I follow.

I rest in the simple wish
of finding my way –
a tentative hope,
to be sure, but
a certain hope
all the same
that sustains.

Cold nights can’t
disperse dreams of
mother and child,
swans and ballerinas,
your voice saying it
would be alright when
we both knew it would not.

Even awake, I see your
full cheek as you smile
and follow its arc
to that small hollow
hidden in the corner of
your mouth. There,
I long to be.

But through the daze
of a fog-filled holiday,
I traverse the hills and
valleys, winding my way
toward another orbit,
another dozen months
of missing you.