The house
hums, always loudly now, and I give thanks silently
for this marvel.
We hang with care, the lights, the star, the garland,
and
all miraculous offerings.
The house, this year, wrought
with new tradition,
delicate as your
inflections,
wrapped in wonderment-
the timing,
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-
the crisis
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.
Your pauses
pound
out
innuendos,
splattering a fresco of fiery
hues onto my well
laid plans and even so I can't help but feel
indebted.
I have tasted,
too, the
end.
So, this year, I will add deeper
rouges, flame to fire, even as
I trim
the green.
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
is yours,
knife in hand, poised to carve,
but I am
not the truth
server
with intent
to trounce.
Instead, it is the inevitable
forcing its way out, laborious,
sticky
and my heart starves, too,
though you cannot hear its weak, synonymous
rhythm through
the reserve.
See, I have climbed the same stairs to dreaded attic,
brought back
adornments, holy,
traveled,
too, the same dusty road in plight of night, in need
of room.
Issued by sovereign call....
depending now
on nothing.
You can have what I cannot give.
The Sunday Whirl
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