Another grief on top of grief,
we return from abroad, 

and it was never there, a thief 
reveals
		this existence a fraud.

In the sky are twinkles
		in darkest space, 
clouds that look like algae blooms, 

or it could be only dust, a flume 
		of opacity 

What is life but belief?
Without certainty of God,
life and death but two countries, 
the boundary our breath. 
                        

I say and I know what you’re thinking –
another poem about resilience, 
comebacks, flowering in cold times,
but this is not the cactus of your imagining –
full and abundant, a cascade of green 
and bursting buds – the red and green
of childhood holiday dreams.
This one is thin, just a handful of limbs –
leaves pale droppings in the window box
from overwatering or negligence.
I barely glance at it anymore
except to wonder when it will collapse
like the basket it arrived in.
Yet. You knew there was a yet.
This morning, (and tonight is Christmas eve),
we have rain and looking out the window,
I couldn’t help but see the ends swelling and pinkening –
almost enough to make the atheist in me believe.