Fractured before we are born,
shattered maybe crazed at the end.
In between all is light and luminaria.
Except in the northern reaches of New Mexico.
There the Tradicionalistas insist on lighting
small fires in the farolito lined streets,
causing dark spots before my bedazzled eyes.
I was rattled by your flashing badge.
What could I do but plead guilty
in the face of this third degree light,
mend the chipped surface of my conscience,
and behave as if nothing happened on the way
to pick up the cake at the bakery –
its tens of candles sparkling
like stars over the Sargasso Sea.
The same sea our ancestors feared for the monsters
harbored in its darkness as they lay at anchor
under a gibbous moon in all their mothic finery.
After all the gifts have been opened the room clears.
Now we see our glass etched by the spider’s web.
We see that fashions change and
the brighter candles burn the less we see.
Happy Birthday Anne you are the love of my life.