The winter winds have kicked up, right on cue.
Bits ooze through, growling, the sound of Halloween
already nearly forgotten.
I hide inside my cider and worn out songs.
The first of December.
Lights gleaming in the window are not perfect because twisted wire sometimes fails.
But, oh, it is perfect, perfect indeed.
The children wonder how something so ordinary could be transformed.
“How do you make it so. . . so beautiful.”
December first is a fight, tangled wire versus sheer delight.
Creative expressions are hung, boldly for all to see.
And the moon is jealous.
The ever present light plays second fiddle to momentary whims.
So it hangs low, close, so it can be reached.
A sliver of light purposed to reveal a promise, a coming.
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