December Rain
The rain blew down in vertical sheets
The eaves of the house forced it into curtains
Whose folds fell just beyond the porch.
In the near distance, the winter wind
Blew the sky water in horizontal panes.
This is not December.
December is cold and Yuletide logs
Burning against the long night.
This is time out of joint
Springtides rising and raging against the darkness
But holding their own against the solstice.
My cigar has smoke that is sucked
Into the void of winter’s ill-named night.
My mind has words that shout
Before the ill-timed wind, and lose their
Meaning.
Is this curiosity, or rather the speech
Of worlds who do not know their orbits?
The rain is punctuation,
Driving torrents before winds that have no name
And thus are speechless before
Their own self-appointed glory.
© 2008 Chuck Puckett
December 28, 2008