december fragments

 

who will look out for me

when I am gone? If I turn

on myself, abandon this

legacy of mediocrity and

the growing awareness

that my best days are

simply good (and fading),

simply an approximation.

 

who will buy my shares

of this winter’s harvest,

carefully plucked and

bundled, up for auction?

 

everywhere I look,

someone is selling

revival thoughts

and revolution toys,

that will surely bring

us bits of glory, but

who is buying and

at what price?

 

I have forgotten

how to speak

in verse

without blushing,

pounding the pulpit

demanding to speak

King Lear’s utterings.

 

A daughter is growing

and kicking her way

into spring and

the sudden light

of Christmas day.

to die to self, what

Self I have, she’ll

teach me, to see my

offerings to nourish

five thousand (even more.)