December

1

Winter, like a head cold, is waning

beneath the DayQuil and chamomile.

The feeling like we might die, passing

with the clouds over the coast.

A raw season of filth and rain--mud

splattered onto your ankles and shins--

still, we wake before the sun.

2

Already, the daffodils sprout. Soon,

the figs will erupt and heavy, branches

stretching to the ground, the yard

drying and greening and drying again.

Perhaps I'll plant tomatoes. Perhaps

rosemary. The canal will wake, glitter

poured from dock to dock--the violinist

dancing on his houseboat. Soon.

3

Cheers to the stars. Cheers to the moon.

Champagne-tipsied, I'd kiss that beautiful man,

with fireworks and sea-salt on my tongue.