December days.

Author:Blumenthal, Michael

Things work: the days grow cold,

buildings rise up and collapse, lust

seems a memory, then it returns.

Oh well, the day's yours--why not

make a small mess, a puddle of contrition

somewhere? Even birds stumble occasionally,

on a tricky branch, hidden from view.

And if it's ever marvelous

to have been born, why not today?

Yesterday, you were a moralist--

things seemed somber, judgmental. But

today you're heavenly, like sunrise:

everything you ever knew of good & evil

is just foam, now, in the steamed milk

that's the cloud cover over your cappuccino.

And, as for your childhood--well,

why not forget it? So, you were

miserable once. Wasn't everybody?

Today, there's frost on the windows,

the abandoned nests of birds

are vivid in the trees, waiting

to be identified. Silly boy, it's not

only Bach who wrote a Magnificat,

but everyone who can compose

out of the duff and detritus of his life

a single day, a karma realized,

a rapture of one's own.


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