December is drawing
the sharp edge
of its blade
across an afternoon
gently falling.
Can these be the same trees,
spindly and dull
from which
—last May—a harvest
of birds were calling?
And this field, uncut
and stunted
by the cold—
could fireflies have risen,
blinking, from it,
just as the rose moon was
dawning?
To compare is to invite
sorrow for tea,
and He is not welcome here.
Still, knowing that somewhere
a fragrant garden
is in bloom, a breeze is
balmy, while one shovels
snow and ice
is galling.
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: Ray Hennessey (CC0 1.0)
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