by: Conrad Hilberry
Let midnight gather up the wind
and the cry of tires on bitter snow.
Let midnight call the cold dogs home,
sleet in their fur--last one can blow
the streetlights out. If children sleep
after the day's unfoldings, the wheel
of gifts and griefs, may their breathing
ease the strange hollowness we feel.
Let midnight draw whoever's left
to the grate where a burnt-out log unrolls
low mutterings of smoke until
a small fire wakes in its crib of coals.
_________________________
My next writing project is my annual Christmas essay. But, after just finishing my last project, I think I'm going to take tonight off.
I think that I'm too hard on myself sometimes. I have papers that I need to grade. Stuff to write. E-mails to send. Two manuscripts to put the finishing touches on. And now, with the holidays approaching, Christmas shopping to do, Christmas cards to address, and Christmas cookies to make.
Saint Marty has a lot of chestnuts to roast in the next 30 or so days.
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