Geri

The clock was frozen in amber, but now frost creeps up to crack the warm glow. The minute hand trembles, then moves in wistful whirls. The Christmas tree slumps, its shiny tears clinking against the wooden floor.

She imagines the universe, 

the world suspended in midair.

Before, nothing except possibility even existed. 

The Milky Way, Earth, evolution–shimmer and dematerialize. 

“Qué será mi pobre patria oscura?” 

“What will become of my poor, dark country?” - from “Insomnia” by Pablo Neruda 

I don’t care much for this state 

but lay me down in the Chesapeake, 

during the fall, 

and maybe I’ll become an autumn tree.