An eve, but it isn’t
an arrival if it doesn’t

stay. Sun on the bridge,
the lake like a mirror,

here suffused with gray.
The night still falls

early but the day gets
longer. Too cold still

to dig in the garden,
the onions can wait,

wrapped in their paper,
safely frozen,

dreamless, mute.
Il nous en faut faire autant

turelurelu, patapatapan—
French carols on

the stereo, blind dog
sleeping in the corner.

Down the embankment
small birds like afterthoughts,

as I wait for a word, anything,
an evening, an eve, the last sun break,

still waiting, turelurelu,
patapatapan, love is

a living thing,
consider the implication.