(C) R.L.K.
Sometimes, on December days,
a sadness settles in. The afternoon sun
paints long blue lines of shadow
on the frozen pond, bare branches
are splayed against the sky, and sometimes
clouds pass, white as empty pages.
Sometimes you think of places, of people,
of things long gone. Sometimes you recall
a simple song played in an old style. And sometimes,
gathering together fragments of abandoned poems,
you try to rediscover the point of this or that:
why just those words, coming one after another?
And sometimes, on December nights,
moonlight falls like stillness on the land.
