there's always a past shaded in dark rows
with tinkling color wrapped in wreathed edges.
satin-covered bunches and pin striped branches.

my mothers hands looking steadily older,
the fingers of the grandmother i grew up below
just a slow grasp of ambrosia and cold breeze.

the collecting of pine needles, pushed piles
that come clean in the rising sun of january
with a sweep. shuffling the dust and months away.

cool mornings of blanket folds and rustling
paper, strings of ribbon. belly-down on the shag,
carpeted with slight memories of being unaware.

11/07/2007

Author's Note: afternoon scribbles. topic: "don't they know it's christmas (in two months)?"

Posted on 11/07/2007
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