It’s funny what prior versions of ourselves think and do. Mine not only prayed to the god of sticky dough and wooden spoons but also had very specific ideas of what it was going to mean to be a poet in 2020.
A love poem for the conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn. Started out with the winter solstice. Ended up in the bedroom. Ooops!
Even the solstice is a trick, using its promise of light as a Trojan horse to sneak in winter. My own belly is full of potatoes. In quarantine, I’ve been perfecting home fries and counting blessings.