Hot buttered rum or three
Once hid reality.
Your accidental children’s laughter,
The vague smell of dried pine needles.
A glance to validate adult distraction.
The moment does not matter,
Tomorrow, next week, next year
Weighs heavy among ribbons and wrapping paper.
The new moon lifts the tidal flow
To flood the mind once again.
Three hundred thirty days to do repairs, AMEN