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Jan 2014
As bland as the snow-covered lawn
     I stare
wishing I were as resilient
                          as the scraggly blades of grass
                          refusing to hide their presence
                under the act of God.

     And I stare
                 because I cannot feel who I am today.

The withering bush
                         gives me no hope
                                                       nor
                   the single starving starling
                                             peck
                                             peck
                                             pecking
                                 at the hardened crust
                                      to find a meal.

     And I stare
                         at the absence of humanity
and uncourageous spirits
                                         who hide indoors
     resigned
                         to take this
                    cold, harsh beating
                      without a fight.

     And I stare
                  into a bank of whiteness
becoming blind
                                 with indescription
                                              and anger
     wishing we could build snowmen again.

     And I stare
          until this sheet of ice
                becomes the
                       blanket of false snowfalls
on the living room table
                            nestled artfully beneath
                 the Christmas village.

We construct happy winter cities
                       of Victorian memories that
                                                      we never had
             with pristine houses
             and carolers and sledders
             taken out of boxes
                              all perfect and smiling...

if only...
          if only...
                     if only... I could take him out of his box
and set him here....


     And I stare
                        at the absence of humanity...

praying
I will have the strength
                                      of a blade of grass.
I am struggling to take down the Christmas tree, his memorial tree, of his colors and familiarities, the only tree in the only year of his death. When I take it down it is done...and 7 weeks until the first anniversary of his death. I pray to grow above the storm and the act of God....
drumhound
Written by
drumhound  Springfield, MO
(Springfield, MO)   
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