Morning: Three Days Before Christmas

Morning: Three Days Before Christmas

The stars know everything,

So we try to read their minds.

As distant as they are,

We choose to whisper in their presence.

                                                Charles Simic

                                                Autumn Sky

But in our sky dear Charles three days

before Christmas morning there’s a thumb

nail moon just rising some above 

the pines or if you wish a curvaceous

hip and dimple grin slipping up from the river

and getting thinner (the moon not

the river) and here she seems shallow

or take away that h and the meaning

shifts some though it depends on the hue

of your mood.  But consider this: the glass

is that rippled and stumped glass that 

old homes have.  And so too my friend 

is the at-mosphere and too so is the film on

my lenses, smudged from tongues

of steam and grease from when we opened

doors receiving us as guests come in

from the cold come in from the brief

or long road narrow enough this time

of year that those oncoming either

yield or we do and because we both

want to be seen as courteous and in

good cheer we each of us pull toward

the bank and hear the tires ask what?

and keep their grip anyway and we take

nothing that doesn’t belong to us

as what is going to pass us by passes us

by and we nod our gratitude in exhaust

pipe condensation and hold our cough

and squeeze and a brief glimpse of that

little slip of the naked moon between

our teeth before she goes missing behind

the stovepipes and chimneys, their billowing

smoke holding out only for the moment

we make for it thinking we must be some-

thing like a genius to see the universe

so briefly before we get back to the mundane

and practicality of the where to put one’s foot 

carefully on the broad pond of ice the parking 

lot, waving off that moon and her sky coming

in and out of light.