WOODSTOCK CHRISTMAS EVE 2016
The snow has shrunk a bit.
Kind of like my mind some
mornings when the news is
so grim I decide to
go back to my bed
to seek the comfort of
my very worst nightmares.
Snuggled in there, it could
still be early fall when
laughter had not been lost,
geese still circled around
the pond and russet trees
were the only things in
flame. When trust still mattered.
It is almost Christmas.
Our fire is chipper, flames
darting about like hopeful
children. Today I thought
my innocence might still
be intact as I yelled
out at our wily squirrels
as if they might listen
and head away toward
the neighbor’s bird feeders.
In their briefest absence,
the pure red cardinal
landed gently, promised
that we might yet survive.
This poem was first published by
The Write Place at the Write Time
(February, 2017)