The water ripples down through the creek
like steel and glass. The grass blades rise
to the chest and the knees and the window.
The storm billows its head above the clouds.
The blades whip violently left and right.
Inside the window as the evening fades to softness
the Christmas Tree and its ornaments glisten
and the fire in the Hearth crackles to be heard through
the window. I am a child walking this field alone.
This is a real place. Somewhere Buzzie is here and we wish you
a Merry Christmas. A Church family has welcomed us into their home.
I was a child of eagerness. I wish you your memories someday
in however this works. You still have a third of your life ahead.
September 