imperfect prose on thursdays: oh holy night

my childhood is strung across branch and light and “pretty” i tell my son as he tender touches bulbs and he marvels at the sparkle and then i kiss him sweet dreams and pray him down to sleepand my friend and i stay up, mothers talking into night wondering...

how much i love you

there is a graciousness to lovewhen the light strikes with slant-certain i see us 50 years from now, happy, grey, grooved, dentures, dress on backwards and lipstick on crooked and happythe slant that finds me worn on a day so awful: a day when the dishwasher crusts...