Unknowingly she, poet, captured
a moment I remembered,
of walking with salmon,
of connecting with eternal.
Feet icicle freezing,
yet warmed and massaged
by those same opal fins
she described.
My daughter and I,
captivated by glinting rainbows
beneath the river’s rivulets,
had cautiously waded in.
In firebrands’ shadows,
autumn leaves
dying orange and red,
we’d joined death and creation.
If I respond with my own fish story,
do I diffuse or enlarge her spawned memory?
She shakes her head, and/
like sunlight reflected/
off waves, I’m blinded.
She captivates me./
Blue streaked hair, n’er tongue, too young,/
yet I get misty.
Late night
starry lights
shine at Christmas.
Neighbors trees
illuminate me
as I pass.
My friends I’ve left.
I feel bereft
and moan “Alas!”
To whom shall I turn?
They won’t return
who I’ve sassed.
I shouldn’t turn away.
I should let my heart stay
open at Christmas.
Finding more random/
joys: Santa, hand bell ringers,/
Young singers: Noel!
Her I/O /
was low (she said.) Instead, I/
showed her: It’s not so!
Seeking strength,
I went to my Temple.
Upstairs,
the signal
was never strong.
But today,
when I needed it most,
it was five bars,
loud and clear.
I sat,
by myself,
in my corridor,
(having met Santa twice already),
and connected
more than I have in awhile.
Soon,
after being surrounded
by art
(Russian Impressionism),
tuba,
Utah Lake mud tile,
and children,
I will go find milk
and a cookie.
This is worship.
This is connection.
This is receiving
the signal
at the Temple.
I saw a Badger trucker/
rolling north /
through the snowcapped mountains.
Top down,
I pointed to my “G for Greatness” /
Packer bumper sticker, /
and flashed him a “W”
Wisconsin sign.
With his mighty horn,
he blasted “On, Wisconsin!”
Two Cheeseheads,/
on the freeway,/
connected./
I hope /
he knows /
he made my morning 🙂
Maybe the best way/
to get the Christmas spirit/
is to act like Christ.
Given my druthers,/
I’d rather ride with her than/
crusty old truckers.