November began
with stiffened fingers,
a few hazy mornings,
too frail of wrists, and
scrapes from swollen
words on our bare knees—
wearisome evenings hung
in sadness.

For nights at a time
I have been sewing years,
together, in those garnered
boxes full of old photographs
and a bundle of typewriter
letters tied by a single
blue thread.

There is comfort in
heavy coat pockets,
carrying a history of
unsure things, like
tea-stained lace, a
delicate cameo brooch
and a small book of
winter poems.