You, Me, And A Dasani

In faith,
we had walked
many miles as
children
following the
plaid moments
with classic
reverie
on snowflake
evenings,
running off to a
neighbor's house
to discover
ornamental trees
and trains
and mothers with
wild open arms.

Instead of a new
sweater,
the cracks in my
mother's kitchen
tile floor now
need fixed.

This is my first
Christmas after
my brother's
unforgettable
funeral. I
have written a
book. People
do.

We will all be
home for
Christmas,
finding memories
that fit our
lifestyles.

I don't think I
will catch a cold,
if bundled up;
wasn't it just
yesterday that I
told you I forgive
you for making me
string up the outside
lights in the flurry
of a freezing climate?
It took me three
minutes to think
of you,
getting a haircut
standing in the cold
air, looking as
handsome as St. Nick
in a blonde beard.
Don't let them touch
it, I said.

Winter is working
miracles. Christmas Eve
will sing like a songbird
in tune to a choir of
holy boys.

Send me the gift of your
sweet-nothings, you, a
wonderful man.

Me, I will measure my
old thoughts,
laughing like a horse
in heavy snow, lying
on her back, making
snow angels.



Third Place Winner in
2005 Christmas Poetry Contest