Because look where it got him, good old D.T., dead before 40,
with some earth-alteringly good poems, sure, but still,
most of us won’t die young, our underwear not only not clean
but possibly unspeakably not clean, and so as we hurtle
into the darkness of winter, the cold, the vortex
awaiting to suck down our moods and run up our bills,
let’s opt for not raging. Let’s do what we can.
Now is the time for the lighting of candles,
the drinking of port, the wearing of wool.
Time for the roasting until they are sweet
of root vegetables with their homely names:
oh turnip, oh beet, oh parsnip,
join your good pal potato,
your fat cousin carrots,
and give us the sun you soaked in through your leaves
all summer long and hid underground until now.
Give us this day our daily whatever
we need to keep going. It might be enough.