hello from the loose dirt of destiny-
the crushed nutmeg lumped out on the table
every hand-dashed season, no recipe
as the last sunlight leaves a slice, fateful
decisions are laid out, as someone sweeps
the tablecloth out, or the crumbs away
something under the rug, what often keeps
coming to mind these days is how to say
hello from the impermanent craft board
of every November, hello as years
grow trunks and branches, I seem to be floored
as I hear hello from beyond the fears
from the seams of old boards that save a flaw
through so much weather, whatever they saw

Copyright © 2021 · Elizabeth Ganot · All Rights Reserved ·