Today is Christmas
sprinkling snowflakes onto pancakes,
where we serve hot cider
in the morning--
"**, **, **"
can be heard right outside
our dining room window
as our decorations jingle away.

The Faux Christmas tree
frosty white and spinning
slightly brushing past
each gift that will be
torn open soon enough
by our foster kids.

They simply glee
and chatter of how Santa
knew exactly what to get them
and how glad they were
for him to actually show up one year--
not remembering him stopping by
but muttering strangers
angrily saying
"santa's not real, grow up".
every time before.

Gingerly patting their heads
whispering to each one
"oh, Rudolph must have been tired"
as I ask them to pass out the presents
that were still wrapped.

Those **** things
lurch around each turn
as if they are lost children
who's mother is also lost
in some isle at Costco.

I know those arching
towers of rows
that hold cardboard boxes
reaching to skylights--
where each passing cloud
blinks for me
as I wander wide eye
for Costco brand cat food
hidden somewhere in the back.

*** holes are not the best at digging
but it's impossible for
my town to fill them,
as each one is a reminder
to our people
that we are irreplaceable.

That when time comes
and the clouds find their resting place
we will no longer crowd the isles
of Costco nor will clouds keep
blinking for us.

Instead our personality
will have dug it's trench
a minor engravement
into the cements and asphalt
of which we called our home.

For us they will leave
our history, appraisal
to the life that has thrived
a marker
that there was beauty
before us
and beauty with us.

Meeting the wonderful
people who will sparkle in the night
are the guiding lights
to blossom in the world--
even as despair tries
to take place in our minds.

Shootings will gander
the cross hairs of our media
causing freight to spread,
even in those we
call our friends.

Bombings will spark
national outcry
in between each sentence--
people will begin
to speak hatred.

Terror will be uprising
creeping into homes
pushing out demands,
to replace our happiness
with their fear.

Against this
I speak for you
one human to another
do not give in
even in desperate times
there are amazing people--
please sparkle
because I know you can.

It's not really a window
but a picture of a boy--
that somewhere in my counselor's past
allows the kid to peer into his future,
into a time that is no longer here.

Maybe it reminds my counselor of better times
or the opportunity he is lucky to have now--
the boy must represent something
but I would not know for sure, as I am not him.

Although I did ask my counselor one day
about this window that watches him work--
this young boy, nothing but a child
normal as most youth always looks
the photo only granting an image
not the whole picture.

"He was a spitfire"
must have been only four foot five,
if that probably shorter
he was rough and tough
not even the Seniors were willing to bother him
those same seniors became
the boy's friends took care of him
they had lots of fun when they could.

The boy.  The Window.
Was not the usual ghostly clouds
or the average bleached pale Caucasian
as their defects were in their circulation
the wind cannot move through mountains
and neither can blood pump through chambers
without the right gust.

Sometimes children
lay down to never wake up again--
maybe it's in the hospital
for another heart surgery
that just happened
not to catch the wind quite right.

The boy was a student--
his counselor was there for him
at a different school in a different time
that even as it flows
the counselor has a window
for this boy
to watch the world from.

Clear Skies Vanilla
is the only soft serve
on the days we have no clouds
and none can be seen
floating on our horizons

it is our seasonal choice
that we wish could come
all year long,
could be as predictable
as *Pumpkin Spice in October
or Eggnog in December
even uncelebrated Baseball-Nut
springs up at the right time.

If only our skies could
be the layers of a sundae--
a limited selection
that always comes down to
hot fudge, nuts,
with a defrosted cherry on top--
then our decisions
would be made for us
we could never
be wrong.

Instead we deliver
Icy Thundery Blueberry BubbleGumy hard serve
on those days--
too complicated to understand
too unwilling to shorten their title
too difficult to be simply BlueGumTuesday
because the sky,
too mixed up to be...Blue.

We raise our scoop
for each serving to dish out--
with them we learn our taste
what calms our nerves
and how to evaporate the rain,
because when we get
to have those cloudless days
we'll have the day
to be flavorful.

It's hard to write
because I crunch the numbers
and realize their
is more words on the page
than eyes will ever read it

In stories
monsters are always
underneath our bed
in our closets
or behind the curtains
to our windows and showers.

Reaping shadowy complexions
fleshy exposed eyes
gleaming ill intent
for our fawns, the children.

Creatures that exist
beyond what we can comprehend
as they watch our sneakers
slip by the edge
where they lie in wait.

Be weary to those
who seek flesh by the pound
carnivorous beings
who slather the fresh
essence of youth
in-between their teeth.

They are not hiding
but living with you
as the anger and fear
that pathologically anchors
its self into your existence.