hums, always loudly now, and I give thanks silently
for this marvel.
We hang with care, the lights, the star, the garland,
all miraculous offerings.
The house, this year, wrought
with new tradition,
delicate as your
wrapped in wonderment-
the season-matching merriment.
We have found decor,
long shelved need, and your desire sparkles
like the brilliance we've been waiting for and I think
of the antecedent-
before creation- fleeing and fullness-
weary women for centuries after
just looking for a home.
This year, no different,
providence pended, hankering
for mounted wisdom,
men to guide.
splattering a fresco of fiery
hues onto my well
laid plans and even so I can't help but feel
I have tasted,
So, this year, I will add deeper
rouges, flame to fire, even as
I will host unspoken words.
I will sip from insight's cup, warm as cider,
because just on the border of close, you have
found me with what
knife in hand, poised to carve,
but I am
not the truth
Instead, it is the inevitable
forcing its way out, laborious,
and my heart starves, too,
though you cannot hear its weak, synonymous
See, I have climbed the same stairs to dreaded attic,
too, the same dusty road in plight of night, in need
Issued by sovereign call....
You can have what I cannot give.
The Sunday Whirl