Christmas morning.
One pale poinsettia
on your table,
two red velvet bows
atop the railing of your stairs,
The glow and scent of
an amber candle.
A chance of snow.
The gentle waft
of a flute's Emmanuel.
Your clock chimes
my morning's rise.
Your sturdy rooster crows.
On colder nights,
the soft cotton quilt
wrapping your guest bed
warmer, more familiar
than sleeping feather in
my loft of sanity.
Climbing down your stairs
I hear, but do not see,
the screen you're studying:
some
15 kilowatt
vegetable-oil warming
what I do not know.
I say, "No snow."
You say, "Doesn't mean it's not coming."
This may be the lone packet
we exchange all day.
Yesterday I asked you
should I leave now?
I ask you this from time to time.
I detect a vehemence
in the slight shaking of your head.
But I may have to go.
Something I think you know,
while we both love,
and still hold,
something precious, yet forgotten.
Later, while I made tea,
you repaired something at your spot,
you glanced and said,
"I miss you when you're not here."
Winter now.
A wood pile is in the house.
The coal slate is foot cool
as I near your kitchen.
You rise to warm my cup.
The rich, dark aroma
seeps across the cabin pine.
I am pondering enjambment.
You are pondering a summer greenhouse.
In an hour,
or two,
I'll shower,
pony my hair,
and pull on my favorite
faded jeans.
Red tee.
Boiled, blue wool blazer.
Brown oxfords at the ankle.
Out the door,
there'll be a white dusting on
the ground.
I'll head toward town
and out and onward into
more connections
where children begin to play
among strewn, shredded paper,
and young mothers do what I no longer
on this day's waking
still tender, mild.
Scupper © 12/2010
=================
My view this Christmas:
Sanity cabin in the woods on this snowy, December afternoon.
photo: ©personal photos, tmp
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Comments
for in our minds and hearts we rejoice
your song echoes over and over for all to know
this day.
hiding the world
like a memory long ago
shielding my heart
from all
hurt and pain
but I am at peace here
.
Your quiet post means much to me Scupper
I loved the line "I am pondering enjambment.
You are pondering a summer greenhouse."
Merry Christmas to you and yours
Happy Holiday.
Merry Christmas and hugs all 'round.
should I leave now?
I ask you this from time to time.
I detect a vehemence
in the slight shaking of your head."
sigh...I feel like a winter sprite, looking in on a story that leaves more questions, and reminds me of other stories, and all condense into a frozen bit of beauty, I stand breathless, looking on
I so miss snow.
so lovely, scupper. delicate and intense.