I was idling at a traffic light and I watched a woman place a wreath at the side of the road. It put things into perspective for me.
I watch as you crouch –
a wreath in your hand.
It is December.
With a frostbitten heart,
you tie it to a metal road sign,
that warns of a curve ahead.
dark as the tip of a wet cigarette,
the sky two shades paler
spitting slush to cool the fire of not forgetting.
Not a second, not a minute, not a line on his face.
And the sight of you
through my wiper blades
shuts me up.
You are the clarity of a silver bell,
ringing one pure note
in the bang, clang, clatter and hiss of my Christmas mind.
You are the star above the forty strands of lights.
The electric spaghetti with no beginning, no end.
You are my Christmas gift.