Friday, July 29, 2011

My Poetry Year: Entry #56

In which Your Humble Blogger accepts the passage of time (at least for now -- wait till I start griping about how quickly 2011 has passed):


November has lifted another page
From the year, from lives both in and outside
The home. A glance on one side of the walls
Reveals oak trees, stripped, shaken, and bending
To the blistering sky, and arrows of
Ducks striking the same hard line as the wind.
Inside the home might not seem much better
At first; every heart here has had to work
For each measure of blood it's allowed.
But in November, we also bundle,
Together, around a table for warmth.
The oven hums a tune of heat to match.
And with each day of ritual passing
From hand to known hand, we're able to say,
“Let November have its calendar page.
We'll send it ourselves.” And we press the page
Between our embrace until it smolders,
Disappearing into ash, and rises
Like the years that we mark with lit candles,
Like the smoke that we all together are.

* * *

*peeks through the spaces between her fingers*

Is it autumn yet?

Y'know, I used to hate the winter holidays. I thought it was awful that people seemed to spend most of the year being horrible to each other only to give in later to the warm fuzzies just because the calendar (and Hallmark) declared that we should do so at year's end. Now? I guess I'm just getting old, because I find myself grateful for those shows of kindness around Thanksgiving and Christmas. At least there's some time set aside for empathy and giving these days.


Whaddya know -- Monday's poem is a holiday poem as well. I promise I won't be as cynical with that one. Wait, one more time --


Okay, I'm set.

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