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Seasons on a Shelf
by Glenn CurrierThere beside the RIP coffin,
purple like the witches’ tree,
plastic fir branches with gold pine cones.
A sleigh on its side.
Pink and yellow eggs
swallowed in green grass
of cellophane Easter.
How we try to preserve seasons past
hoping they’ll be useful
down the line.
The joy of yesterday’s Thanksgiving
already fading
passing trough like geese
flying high
to winter in Florida.
Already the joy is a faint echo,
most of its original zing
strained through the porous membrane
of sleep.
But if I should live in the grief
of those lost drippings,
the dark hunger
would clot the lifeblood
and eat away
the possibilities
of this day. 11/25/2011 Posted on 11/25/2011
Copyright © 2025 Glenn Currier
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Alison McKenzie on 11/25/11 at 08:15 PM Love this, Glenn! I think part of the "fading" is the swiftness of time these days. You hardly breathe the word "joy" and it's disappeared, replaced by other experiences. |
| Posted by Charlie Morgan on 11/26/11 at 12:43 AM ...Glenn, my son! my son! this is one ponderous thought; weighs a ton, and i love/identify with every ounce...at my perview[now]your brush is painting well the horizon i see...'drippings' a beautiful double entendre. |
| Posted by Lori Blair on 11/28/11 at 03:14 AM Too often we focus much on what has been whether good or bad..perhaps we should learn to truly be within the present and live..love this..a favorite! |
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