The ivy leaves sheened with frost
attend more changes in the weather:
an inhospitable climate, you’d say,
drawing tactful attention to
welcome contrasts indoors.
Bread and candles give out
their promises in this small space –
not great statements into the world
of headlines and outrage, but light
and sustenance, the waxy smell,
the taste of recent harvest.
And here, at this table, it’s as if
I’ve not had time to think of this before.