WINTER BAZAAR 

Not-yet broken crockery.

Sky, for the moment, intact.

A table heavies with glass-

blown angels bent

at the wing into prayer.

Nothing worth note

to forgive this morning.

So many bearded faces

stack lengthwise over

matching plastic crosses.

Someone’s grandmother

praises the transcendence

of Marionberry & cinnamon.

Your mother & mine covet

the same ceramic dish

that captures a couple

before their fall.

Naked & unashamed,

birch quiver all around us in ecstasy.

Huge hands cover my eyes,

guide me blindly out

onto the sidewalk where all

the children are busy

fashioning their fathers

from gray trampled snow.