In March,
we slashed crosses reluctantly
across calendar dates.
Cancellations not countdowns,
ellipses of empty weeks.

In April,
we bore crosses heavy with guilt
after insisting family members
gather to celebrate,
and 8 caught the virus.

A great aunt died, we grieved
her cross among thousands
lined up like poppies
in Flanders Fields.

All summer,
we formed crosses,
arms against chests
to block the evil and misguided
who crossed lines of decency
armed with Molotov hate.

Last November,
we marked crosses
in ballot squares
to choose a better path
at this crisis crossroads of history.

May crosses mark the coming year.
Crosses and crescents
and six-pointed stars
to shine from within,
illuminate our way
with glowing compassion.