The snow falls through the city's bright midnight.
And now, seconds after the new year's birth,
a few rogue firecrackers play between rooftops
and naked branches. Dancing with snowflakes,
the sparks seem all the more magic--
this mingling of fire and ice glimpsed
through slats of a broken window shade.
A wish, a prayer behind my dirty window:
This year, Lord, let me learn to connect.
In preparation for guests,
my morning brings a grocery run.
Alas, the first store is (understandably) closed.
A fellow hopeful and I commiserate,
sloshing back to our cars.
"Happy New Year!" He smiles at me--
then, suddenly earnest, says,
"I'm glad to be here."
At the second store I find success and feel,
oddly, beneath the dripping awning, a pleasant thrill.
This could be a wonderful year.
It is all right to hope. Sometimes
hope, like love, must be allowed.
I pray that you do connect this year. You wrote you need to LEARN to connect, and I supose that comes first, but sometimes you don't learn things, you just let them happen. I think you would write poetry just as wonderful if your wish to connect comes true. I hope you don't fear losing your gift. Just a thought.
ReplyDeleteNice to read this again. I was not sure I remembered it until the line "A fellow hopeful and I commiserate," Then the poem was like an old friend. Odd what one remembers. From your writing, it seems that this prayer is being fulfilled.
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