Poetry of Loss, #3

I have officially stopped traveling to Wishland  

with its ribbonned packages 

and smells of favorite fluff

like anise biscotti

and steamy coffee mugs, and creamy concoctions

created for my pleasure. 

I now wake with a hunger that has no name

for that rare occurrence

when the earth tilts on its axis

and the firmament goes back

 to the day its orbit

smiled on us.

Perhaps a snow day would suffice.  

*snow is a rare occurrence on these shores