Call it a spare time—
dark afternoons
and the bones of trees
rattling against the sky.
We could use more hope,
or reason for hope. The sea
is rising, and bombs are planted
in the marketplace. It might
be better to just go to bed.
It might be better to
turn out the lights and wait
for the end to come.
The only other choice
is to dance. That and to sing
sturdy songs that have held up
across the winters,
drink wine the red of blood
that has not been shed,
feast, tell tales of heroes who
strode or stumbled through
their own bleak times.
When in doubt, revel in the darkness.
Each act of celebration is a spark.
Gathered together
they call back the sun.