It finally came, the shortest of days, in a year long as the night that comes after. But all days seem three-hundred days long when they feel like just as many a disaster. Yet this year we count such calamities in the thousands, if not millions or more. Numbers have become numb in their meanings, except when illness or death knock on your door. So the planet spins and traces its path 'round a sun that cares about us not a whit. And we trudge our way through this dark Winter on its back, as if we were each just some nit. I try to have hope things will get better now that more sunlight’s creeping back this way. Our longest night might finally be over, and with it some of our sorrow and dismay. But if you still have trouble finding the good, you’ll need a certain help finding the better. Perhaps we can brighten our lives like we used to, simply talking ourselves out of the darkness together.
The snow’s come back, it’s Nature’s way to demonstrate who’s boss. And if you fail to know that by now then, Baby, that’s your loss. That’s a surprise, since loss you wear like a parka in the snow. No one looks good in those gloomy rags but what the hell do I know? Life’s fashion plate I’ve never been, always it's blue or gray or black. Let’s go outside and enjoy the snow, We’ll wear all white when we come back. Would it cheer you in these darkling days, when sorrow’s all around us? Lay down here with me and swing your arms, and angels leave behind, thus. And perhaps other angels we’ll hear on high, come some silent night ahead. The snow’s let up, our angels fly low, wings touching on this bed. They say angels are forever beings, but ours might be gone tomorrow. I pray my words lay forever in your heart and one day smooth your sorrow.
As the holidays come, he’d been thinking about her and others in his dim past. His memories, like white tree lights blinking flash and fade like guests, yet she’s always last. Does he recall the cards and gifts they shared? Has she kept any of them all these years? He hoped she understood they meant he cared, even the times his gift brought her to tears. Then his mind would move to another thing, focus he couldn’t hold long anymore. But occasionally some thought would bring a shadow she once knew to her mind’s door. But shadows are hard to find in the black, the darkest night of the year will bring soon. She drops that thought back in its velvet pack, and, for no reason, hums herself an old tune. And so their thoughts pass as if in a storm, out of reach, like a lost note or missed flight. That’s their lives, misses and losses the norm. But life’s gift’s best shared if only they might.
I’d love to eat away the dark clouds, but for so long they’ve feasted on me. I’m smudged across the sky face-up, so I don’t even get a view of the world from this dingy popcorn ceiling. And so I must rely on memories of my once-was, which grow foggier each day. I view them from my hazy altostratus hammock, neither fowl nor fish, soprano nor bass, just smoky wisps of "mmm…perhaps" that’ve always kept me above distant, concrete reality. You do look lovely here, though, where all our hair is ashen so who cares about age, and storms fill in for what passes for passion. Maybe someday I’ll turn over and find you, bright-faced, smiling with some small kind of love at sun-laced puffs of poetry…recognizing a few kinda look like you.