Broken Strands

Solitary mortals blaze so bright
dancing through the bitter night.
Beacons blue with pain,
broken strands of DNA
or jewels in the wilderness
trying to connect the dots
into a merry necklace?

The Year is old,
seeping away alone and cold,
face down, skirts up on a park bench.
Poor bag-lady, she’s undone,
waiting for the dawn of a waning sun.

The sky is falling, turning greens to gray
as the child climbs up the hill to pray.


Original photograph by the author