It’s New Year’s.

It’s New Year’s & the stars are white-hot & all your favorite dishes

are flushed warm on the island: tteokguk for fortune, knife-cut noodles

for longevity, persimmon pudding & a tin can of sardines.

The nectarines are in season in our backyard & the pigeons

are painting their pale bodies with rain. The man in the powdered apron

still feeds them on the porch of  his square little store, the way you said

was too generous. Too much for such small bodies to be eclipsed

by hunger. We leave flowers by your pillow, the lakeside whirring

with cicadas. We chose a round pound cake from the supermarket

last week, the anniversary of  your funeral. I confuse my birthday

with the day you died. Are you listening? I am still making a list

of places for us all to visit: the static image of your youth,

the last lake in which you loved. There should have been

more distractions. There are still so many sardines

left in their cans, floating belly-up in brine. Seabirds still float

against the red bridge, arrogant, flashing their bellies

toward the sky. I think you would have liked to feed them.

I think you would have been generous,

despite.

Christmas  -   Friedrich Kallmorgen , 1903.

German ,  1856 - 1924