I fear this decade’s project is repair.
The circuit is sporadic, and the glow
is dim, but for the eye-gleam of a crow
or quiet prideful colors in your hair.
But what are these against a hungry blaze
that, out of sight, still smothers us in smoke?
Our simple joys are made a bitter joke
by grief and terror in these final days.
Still, simple joy is all there ever was.
And no encroaching eschaton can wreck
the warm of hand in hand. So what the heck.
Let’s gather hands on tools before the fuzz
of static grows to swallow up us all.
Let’s wire up a light against the fall.