Not the best time, in the flurry of holiday sales and red-nosed cheer,
to sit before unwritten lines, attempt to lean in close enough for the wind-hum
of poetry, to look for that little rustle, the bird-wings of new language, to conjure
the tiny tremor of a story landing, foal-like, in pasture. Some
days, it feels Herculean just to steer the shopping cart through packed aisles,
or to seal the envelope that pays the bill. Then, too, is the countdown
of the year’s final weeks, and the itch to wipe the slate and clean the mess.
Such a busy-making season, once the trees have shed and the birds have flown.
I am lost, looking for some poignant syllables, good words to carve from all the candy joy
while the boy in the café laughs, chasing an invisible enemy with his new toy.