Christ is in you,
though your brow is not blackened for Lent
your head bowed low, a sunless gaze
rain has cleared the path of dust into muddy rivulets
our overcast garden smells of cinnamon and autumn
not far, birds from Siberia have finished fattening up
and will return without news.
Perhaps it'd be easier to dampen our thoughts -
admit defeat now, migrate on.
I pray, we never hang ourselves from despair and famine -
broken down and unable to provide for a child..