Left Behind
by Maureen GlaudeFeet, scarves, shoulders
elbows, pushing by me
as one unit
dabs of hues from every palette
marking the blur push whirr
twirling swirling in
forward then reverse
in their frosted labyrinth.
On a roundabout,
the kind in childhood
I always fell off,
trying to mount,
the others are spinning
beyond limits;
I cant get on,
I am not old.
I cant catch up.
I'm merely weak.
How important is this hegira?
Do I really want
to fall in line?
Not one stops
to extend a hand.
Figures barely talking,
wind-up human dervishes, flushed,
performing a strange choreography
in the wake of the fresh
tidal up-turn
of their giant snowball globe
a crystal womb.
Or tomb?
Fluttered flakes
fill their sky. Hiding their
resplendent hues.
Whether their journey ends
whether it is governed by purpose,
clearly it is only theirs;
only for the strong.
Rotations behind
I struggle, paling fast.
In variation of a theme
on Keats Grecian Urn,
theyre trapped
in a forever following
of an unattainable destiny.
A circle whose ends cannot ever
meet. And one for which
I cannot pass initiation.
No dream, no fantasy, this.
A reality
of my Christmas fever.
12/22/2005