(Please note that it was written in the first week of December)

It’s December.
The storks will be back by
(perhaps) next week.
Our countryside will be
cold again.
I’ll watch the stars alone –
minute dew-drops on a
gigantic Oxford blue shawl.
Sometimes I visit your mother.
She laments about her loneliness
and dreads your job.
I do wish, then,
that you were around.
Else, I’ve mostly run a brush
to unpaint your portrait
off my mind’s canvas.

Stay Blessed