How fast February
flies in
when so little time ago
what I remember
from so many Decembers
was just happening.
The deeps of winter
again now past,
first rounds of blossoms
here and there,
show threats to choke the winter out
and tease me
with their tastes of spring.
I wake to dim sky gray
backlit by somewhere sun
that lights and deep,
reflective, mud-lined puddles
bracketing the street,
and seek to use the
muted light
to guide me
through whatever storm
I choose to make
or chance to meet.
Sunny days
and cold nights. . .
the winter strong
has known,
but seeming funny,
ways–
the force of rivers
is said to power
the dumping snows and gushing rains,
which, while it happens,
to us funny seems,
since it has not reared its fearsome head
in oh so long–
Big trees came down
but, so far, I have not,
But what remains
is yet to weather
the rest of winter
and usher in the spring
and to rise
up on the tide of it,
a line of work that must be
steady kept
while aptly peppered with
sufficient respite. . .
But the wherewithal
to do just that thing
lies at a depth
also quite uncommon seen.
And the task before me
is to find it,
though it may mean to be
as strong
as I have ever been.
A giant wave
of grief. . .
it wants to flow
much like the fattest drops
of heavy, salty tears,
warm down a face,
lids squeezing water out of eyes,
with grace or awkwardness,
so to express
a love and loss,
through time and space–
deep and
pervading fully
past where words can touch
through a bond connecting
for all time,
and from before ’twas something I could do
even to know
what it was to know.
Loved ones from near and far assembled,
Or if absent,
for now or for good,
quite dearly held
in heart and mind
with longing and remembrance
honest, strong and kind.
Each person’s reach
made to touch
in needed or heartfelt direction. . .
fingers then clasped,
that hands might,
with spirit,
duly be joined
and blessings counted.
And, with joyful anticipation thereby mounted,
Mouths, teeth and tongues
become engaged,
appreciatively
to eat. . .
and listen and talk,
in love and knowledge
so to grow.
Swallows follow.
Communal satisfaction waged.
Souls and bodies nourished
in the best way
that could be wished–
A holiday,
at last,
complete.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This poem is a revision of an earlier poem of the same name, from 2016:
https://wordpress.com/posts/elainedanforth.wordpress.com?s=FOR+THE+FEAST
No matter whence
and wherefore
a gift has come,
clear some space. . .
allow that it bring
a little slice of bliss,
or that it shall be
put to fine use,
with joy and aplomb.
It is the obstacles we cannot name or touch, and scarcely dare to face, let alone feel, that stand most squarely in our paths to thwart us, unless we dare to plod on, even in the face of them.
And, when they persist in popping up to trip us or stop us in our tracks, we dare to ask them what or who they are, and what they want and need, to allow us to move past them, or, if we both are stronger for the partnership, to bring them along with us, where, in THE light, we can help each other, on our journey.
An assembly
of friendly people
faces and smiles,
even over pixilled
and transmitted squares,
beamed out over
few or very many miles,
allows one
to connect,
productive and convivial,
though virtual
may oft be thought as lesser than,
the effect
of where and when our lives
even thus
do intersect
is anything but trivial.
Take your little hand,
bedecked with
warming
or with ornamental, dressy
glove,
or simply bare,
as at your birth,
with its complement of palm and fingers. . .
and reach,
with one therefrom
to softly,
soft as can be,
touch
some other one
who craves and needs
the very kind of touch you have
with which to touch. . .
And,
in the knowing
you’ve done thus,
the touch that you feel
in that very, self-same act,
you will feel
so deep and sweet,
that naught there is
compares to it,
as such.
The heat
inside. . .
the windows ope. . .
the dark,
the faintest draft,
the fat and waxing moon
that looms. . .
the crickets
gentle plenty chirping song—
ALL RIGHT! All right!- it’s beautiful–
and not so very “warm” as ’twas,
but after days
of heavy, record heat and sweat
and flattening,
I sure do hope
some truly cooler time
is coming soon.
Monday survived. . .
Well almost. . .
a thing or two yet to do
before my eventual,
and I hope inevitable,
into-bed dive
or fall
or sink.
Oh, would that there were,
a smooth, shiny key
to unwind,
to leave
this pleasant
but too busy, too weary
day behind,
and allow me to tick
like a steadfast clock
into a deep
and dreamy sleep,
from which,
past ample hours,
I may awake,
after someone, thing, or other
has been so kind,
while I’ve turned off my mind,
my small, roving soul
to befriend and tend,
and on my behalf,
lovingly to keep.
The Danforth Anchor 