Ahead

Ahead

Fran Westwood

Outside, the shrill wind. Winter shakes
even brown brick. Our windows grey.
I stand in the doorway with a handful of vines.
You arrange your scarf, I kiss you a sleepy goodbye.
Am I as far along as I thought I’d be?
What are the origins of should? I wonder
if dreams curdle, or gestate on slow backburners.

I curl greenery until it touches, place four candles
plus one. Can ahead be measured with kindness?
Here, a few wicks burn in dawn darkness. My family,
we call this a new year begun. Are these middles
also a beginning—the furthest place
I have journeyed to

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Fran Westwood
Poet & Counsellor

Photography by Conor Sweetman