315 and 316; and 327: The Seven Days of December: iii

How often do I sink into the sea

that is the gulf that tugs and tears us two.

How well I know its waves that wrest at thee,

and would have won, had I not been with you.

I learned the every layer of that pit,

its every corner fresh upon my hand.

What would I do to get you out of it,

and onto soft shores up upon the land.

I swim e’en now with you within that sea,

tho sometimes you refuse to see me there.

Come now, to clearer waters, swim with me;

and breathe, without resistance, sea-spray air.

For I could walk these waters if I want,

but you are there; and, so, I swim this font.

~~~

We meet for things that have no consequence

(or maybe some, of sorts we cannot see)

to grow, unstring the bow, and care dispense,

for games and entertainment, joyfully.

We also meet for dollars and for cents

(and other great and good, important things)

to sow, to shoot the bow, and care commence,

for work, for church, ‘intense-like’ gatherings.

But ne’er too often meet, we, on the fence

(not levitous, nor busy, but between)

to glow, polish the bow, or talk of whence

our hobbies and our work have both blessed been.

Must gatherings exclude such things as this?

Must self-fulfillment be but lonely bliss?

~~~

You’d think, now that it’s darkest, that the dark

would aid you in your bid to to hibernate;

but no, your eyes and bones refuse to hark

to that same want that wishes you abate.

So in the cold December night we toss,

we turn, and rise before we’ve gone to sleep;

and walk about the house with all the loss

of one who never learned to count up sheep.

That is, ‘tis so for me. The solstice mocks

the way her darkling margins mess with me;

and make me stare by night at all the clocks

that tick and tock while I pace sleepily.

But maybe it’s the month playing the fawn,

and pleading for more time before it’s gone.