Waking

In December, Christmas cries a few snowy tears
Perhaps weeping for those the year has taken.
And the temperatures unswell, as well,
lowers its head in respect for those
who made it into heaven, and for those
who went... in the other direction.

The cold gnaws at you like the millions
of miniscule teeth of mice;
People shuffle from the door of their house
to the door of their car, with no hello,
not feeling like being nice.

Some sense of the season is lost.
The dreams that once brightened our lives
when we were children of presents and
family meals have become something to digest
like the meat we eat with forks and knives.

We cut away at our dreams:
If we can't go to Europe then maybe Alaska.
We always have to think about what it cost.
As if we know a raise is too much to ask.
Some sense of the season is lost.

Instead of slanting through two-degree air
today's sun sends shafts of light down
through forty-eight degrees that feel like eighty.
I realize as I walk to the mailbox that I do not
need a coat or jacket. There is a spring
in my step, and my back is straight.

I pause to watch the neighborhood children play.
They throw the football, throw rocks, throw punches,
and collapse, tired when they are through.
I find a letter from an old friend waiting for me in the box.
And I wonder if January the 9th should be a holiday, too.

1.9.1999