Narrative Poem
December’s Minstrels
Writing on napkins
The leaves have held on as long as they could,
now they sigh and scatter the ground,
the last few flickering embers of light
before December’s dampness takes hold.
George Winston’s piano plays Some Children See Him,
its melody drifting softly
as morning frost covers the earth,
mindfully guiding me as I pick up
the morning newspaper —
a delicate dance to keep from falling,
like the half-bitter apples that scatter the yard,
their bruised flesh sinking into the earth’s cold embrace.
Ode to December, the grand finale,
when the curtain closes on the year,
and man’s streams of red and green lights
hang from family rooftops and fences,
cheering up the quiet gloom,
a fragile warmth against the cold.
December, the end of the year,
the end of a life cycle,
the end of my mother’s life.
Her final breath, a tolling bell,
piercing the silence
commemorating a life lived,
resonating in…
