(wintersun)

Winter sun
on the brown
grass,
a golden light.
Translucent
leaves,
electric
with the breeze.
December ends.
The year.
The decade.
The century.
Most think
the millenium.
but the real
marker –
the moments
are not the least
bit thread bare.
I sit here
inside one of them,
warmed by
it.
Comforted
b y its promise
of continuity,
which does not
jar the senses
as the calendar
can.
Demanding
that we celebrate
things we can’t
get our hands
around,
say things
we can’t really
mean.

12/29/99