Happy Seventh Night {a poem}

Sparkling cider-grape cider
two pizzas 
one wool scarf and a Tartan accent
Conversation ranging from DuBois
to Bulgarian orphanages 
to strip clubs 
to family secrets
to physical therapy 
to dogs. (Always dogs.)

“To endings that lead to beginnings,”
a toast most welcome,
clinking jam jars across 
a table made of recycled attic flooring,
the old and rough made new,
the discarded finding utility,
beauty in the creases and scars
the wood bears, we bear.

We see each other here
on the seventh night,
our wingspan across decades
generous and kind,
the candles bright and burning
all too quickly,
all the bygones gone 
and the yet to comes 
poised like hopeful prayers 
on the insides of our bones,
each a small light 
in the darkness
outside these walls.