Trees bow to each other and dance madly; a celebration.
The dog in his yard stands bewildered, watching.
I light candles mid-day, a tribute to the heart
of December. Soon, we will blow out their cinnamon scent and join the wind.
A crisp sunlight, slice of sky, illuminates a year
closing, opens a window; a bird glides by effortlessly.
The cats pamper each other briefly, in an hour
of change and bricks lifted from shoulders sagged; a fresh coat.
As the rain buckets and near night greets us, we hibernate;
in our flannel, with writing utensils, I lasso words and he untangles numbers.
When the kittens forget the seasonal tree, and chase sunlight,
after the winter night storm that made us all twist our necks.
Like bears, we stay in our soft cocoons, rise to dark skies;
we walk, still asleep, burrow lightly into the folds of each other’s arms.
I am pummeled with sounds – the words and voices of unfinished
speeches and stories – of records by those real or not; always real work.
I awoke to more deaths printed and, still, this day chokes me;
this could be a last day I sleep through and glide my hand across.
The kittens circle the perimeter of the tree, invade diameters,and scramble across the hard surface with overturned parcels in their wake.