Friday, December 26, 2014


Post-Christmas Morning, 4:15 am

Fog burnishes the tips of each tree
that lines our lake,
shading the air with sepia hiccups,
ghostlike in a way,
white-gray smudges clinging to darkness,
doing their best to blot away the seeping daylight
the way a protective mother might.
This is the hour when
even the geese and eagles 
are in deepest slumber
and no one notices
but me
lying akimbo beneath the shimmering strands
of Christmas lights,
tufts of wrapping paper on the floor eye-level,
wondering how I got here,
this year,
this day,
this minute
a circumspect opportunity to re-load
the chamber of my life
and boldly pull the trigger.

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