all this talk:
Time for planning,
The leaves twist and shift, drifting indifference.
I cannot measure their colors
as breezes toil to recreate
a previous flurry of leaves and debris
as clouds grow gray and dusk strains
for a partner it can never know,
the unfulfilled transition to night.
Out there, reaching toward nothing,
giving children time to stretch
before street-light timers and pink cheeks
send them damp-socked to warm baths,
suds and fresh-dried towels,
then flannel sheets and set alarm clocks.
Let us pass this moment,
freely, keenly, kindly.
Let me escape and drown in this.
Such an amassing of potential nostalgia;
thoughts and fancies.
I weigh myself for what I am worth
and I cannot wait to go.
These normalities take longer
than the things we enjoy
that exist in blinks, in between breaths.
The gas-powered heater to be dusted,
for fear of fire as it warms
bedrooms’ stinging wooden floors.
Say something sweet, make haste.
See, in the morning we’re too distracted
with the sleep in our eyes,
and you’ll tell me not to kiss you
before you brush your teeth.
But what I want is you, make-upless
and severe. Reality.
You want reality
only before you’re about to dream.
Pine scented everything,
with no pines residing nearby,
but sold, en masse, at drug stores.
Young ladies, too young to know the season,
decadent and decked in greens and reds,
deep, earthy tones that nature envies,
ashamed and silent.
You know, I’ve never shared mistletoe
with a single pair of lips.
I should be glad for this novelty.
Pretend to make traditions
so when you meet somebody new
you can incorporate them
as though they, not you, were the novice.
But creation is better
with the warmth of someone else’s hands.
Oncoming rain, cocoa, ale and salted sidewalks,
downpour and all that follows:
asphalt glaring, muddle mirrored streetlights’
translations lost amiss.
I would be delighted
if you’d stick around
instead of sitting silently in the corner,
asking permission to leave
as soon as somebody else does it first.
Others cannot wrap as well as you,
try as they may.
and the rain patters above,
like Grandma’s fingertips on her card table,
impatient for the next play.
Candles lit, my heart crossed,
for what it’s worth to cross it.
The crunch of snow,
my fingers in your pockets.