Fall
Together,
Fractals
Of
Themselves,
Endless
Replications
Of
Various
Vocations.
All
Combine
Then
Suddenly,
The
Last
Is
Here,
To
Become
The
New
Year.
In
Our
Hopeful,
Futile,
Way,
We
Mark
The
Imagined
End,
Time
As
Always,
Our
Fickle
Friend.
Days
Fall Together, Fractals Of Themselves, Endless Replications Of Various Vocations. All Combine Then Suddenly, The Last Is Here, To Become The New Year. In Our Hopeful, Futile, Way, We Mark The Imagined End, Time As Always, Our Fickle Friend.
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Morning
Gray, Light Rain Has Come To Wash Away The Holiday. Neighbor’s Giant Plastic Snowman, Puffed Full Of Empty Air, Grins On, Tips His Hat, And Doesn’t Care. The
Week Hangs Suspended Between Two Holidays, One Ended, One To Begin The Whole Thing Again. This Year Melts Like Snow, No Time Left To Know More Than I Did Before Time Shuts The Door. Charming
Miss D. Woke To Find A Naked Man Under Her Christmas Tree. ‘Glory Be,’ She Cried, ‘Are You For Me?’ ‘Indeed, Sweetheart, For I Perceive You Are In Need Of A Phantom Lover, So Let’s Get Back Under Your Warm Cover.’ ‘But Sir,’ She Demurred, ‘Although It Would Be Pleasant, I Cannot Accept Such A Scandalous Present.’ ‘Nay,’ He Replied, ‘You Will Soon Learn A Fellow Like Me Can’t Be Returned.’ So There They Were, And We Must Agree, Best Look Carefully Under Your Tree. Seeking
A Fresh Start, A Change Of Heart, Not In Another Time And Place, But Here, In This Chosen Space. Turn Slightly To The Left, So As Not To Feel Bereft, And Through The Elm Tree’s Winter Tangle, See This Life From Another Angle. The
Question Is, The Rules Are, The Limits Firmly Set, No Room Here For Regret. The Way Is Clear, But Maybe Not This Year, The Line Is Drawn, Margins Gone, Blank Pages Yawn. Sure As Water Seeks, Weeks Become Years, Tears Dry In Every Eye, Smiles Go On For Miles, Answers Slide Away On Ice, And Every Velvet Word Must Be Said Twice. A
Frozen Feather Boa Of Cloud Rests On The Mountain Crest, And Shrugs Along To The Breast Of Cluttered Hills In A Tumble Of Icy Chills. Twenty Degrees Here, But Up There I Fear My Blood Would Freeze And Down I’d Fall, To Become A Thoroughly Frosty Snowball. Under
A Hush Of Snow, Frost Crushed Violets Grow. Icicles Drop From The Rooftop, Translucent Blades, Winter Made, Glisten In The Shade Of Bushes Stiff With Cold, As This Year Becomes Old, Spring A Distant, Wished For Thing New Violets Will Bring. Tra
La, Tra La, Let The Iceberg Of Love Begin To Thaw, Around, Below, And Above, To Flood Our Land With Song, Where All Peoples Belong, West To East, From Great To Least, And Join Distant Spirits In This Coming Winter Feast. |
AuthorJeanette Collins Archives
August 2024
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