Vol 4, Num 24 :: 2005.12.30 — 2006.01.12
We haul the days to the edge of the year
and gladly part with them,
as anticlimactic as they turned out to be.
Mothers? faces are undecorated
as the curdled eggnog gets dumped.
The skies are glazed, leaving us
squinting as we slip through the sliding
glass doors of the drearier house.
We are babes peeking out of placid wombs.
The backyard is stolid,
trees making spindled black prayers,
leaves floating in archaic breeze,
compost pile getting higher,
mulching into sweetrot,
prognosticating about Spring.
Blessed leftovers of the year.
This is the time of remembrance
and consecration of memories,
the sights and sounds and scents:
the pushing our way through incense,
wearing religion like perfume;
we were dizzy as we paraded into mass,
masses of worshippers and acolytes
with angels flying through the colonnade.
We kissed a infant?s forehead, smartly,
then left him crying in the pews,
eager to return home and loot
our more ribboned and tacit traditions.
But it?s all trash bags and photo albums now.
We haul the days to the edge of the year,
alien as Christmas trees in January.
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