Days like these

Semana Santa — Girona, photograph by author

there are days
when bearings blur
laughter strikes hollow chords
faces become obscure
the longed for hand in mine slips
the good bye kiss of fingertips
when even up and down become unmoored
days when I look for certainty and find
the fragile needle of the compass spinning
nights when sadness fills the space
between the stars
and moonlight scribes bitter runes
I call my questions to the wind
expecting twisted echoes
of someone else’s Hallmark platitudes
Instead, a child’s voice,
repeating what it cannot know,
“Hope, it’s the last thing to go.”