Friday, December 31, 2010

A Year-End Poem

2010, a year in decline.
We took it as it came to us,
warm and snuggly, hot and humid, painful, cold, tense.
Sometimes the snow piled up, and so we borrowed
a neighbor’s shovel and dug out, or tweaked
our anxiety, played dominoes by the fire.
It calmed us down and we took the pulse of our pills.

In the late winter, bright candles with a six-month wick, borrowed light. How apt!
The flickering shadows of millennial dances.
We stretch, listen to traffic syncopation and bundle the Sunday funnies;
the twine runs across our tendons and we are cellos singing for a lost cantata.

In Spring, everything is a question.
Who can deny the pleasure of a budding bush?
The unfortunate mud somehow still surprises, supercedes last year’s cloudy      watermark.
(Scrubbing the walls can only get one so far.)
Could it be best to co-exist with the mouldy little buggers? Can we even try?

In the summer, both births and deaths, equal under azure drama.
The toddler balances the gin, while the bicycle blows out the cobwebs--poor spiders.
An expert web is temporary. Especially so, in July,
when an extra ten minutes burns your palm into my forearm.
Which I didn’t need! Long-sleeves next time.

Thank god for a damp forest floor, though, reliable and mossy.
Without it, soup means nothing.
And what’s a world without soup?
Damn bleak.
But not October, the rising hunter, the bright veins.
And the squash, jester of a fallen garden.

Interstitial solstice, I’m so happy you're back.
With longer days, my path ought to be better lit.
So go on and show me chestnuts and a horse’s mandible.
Haven’t you heard? The Neanderthal’s among us, dormant,
waxing his sled, watching the same snowfall that we are.

1 comment:

  1. Happy New Year, Blais! Here's to more prose for 2011...