napowrimo day 12
a winter entry in my journal, turned into a poem for today
The Final Season
What if this is all we have left? The final weeks,
days, and hours. How will you take the only
season left to your living? Measure the days
by the hours and the hours by their light.
Light remaining or light returning.
How many only’s have you thought of?
Only one more kiss, only one more strawberry,
only one more snow. What the terrible
and what the final beauty of that final hour.
Then even this pile of gravel and discard
of orange traffic cones becomes wondrous.
Beautiful disarray of cracked concrete
beside twisted iron bars. How rust blooms
even in winter, birds find the cones
entrance the perfect circumference
for a home. The snow fell, yesterday,
making the gravel a reverse volcano,
like those you made as a child, but in negative.
Snow, the building block of all that is temporary
in the midatlantic. Some days it is everything,
this love, this growing in winter.