Mid December, the golden lights. The ribbons, elves, anticipation
Swatches of velvet, swishing crinoline, giggles.
The big guy is said to be packing treasures,
and we've all been good.
(In our way.)
But waking after she's gone,
waking as the sun hits the ridge,
waking as you know that first morning -
The wound drills through what once were the butterflies of hoping
into sorrows that pull our feet deep into blackened soil so far so cold
unable to get up.
Bronze filings by the farrier
in the chilled air
talking of work, children,
a horse stubborn but beloved.
The every-day that moves the minutes along.
Color was a gift they sent as an afterthought.
Cranberries, pine, cream in buckets.
Bleeding pyracantha, hollies, the reds and greens of this time of year.
Yet, brown is warmth, shades of earth
in the basket they sent.
The umber, an unction.
Ochre'd weeds in the faded watermelon garden.
Folded climbing once-red roses,
Cool silence in the mountain air
as a bird cries
from the chill creek.
There is a red in sepia that cannot be defined.
Colors perhaps fairies sent
or the Natives left
before we came barreling in.
More carmine than cerise.
More thorn-punctured than rouge-swept.
Cold December'd air reaching the buried wound,
brushing, whispering what the
next morn will bring.