The season for
writing poems
about snowflakes
falling and smoke
swirling from
chimneys has arrived.

—December

s.b.

#poetry #december

Thanksgiving
cold and snow.
Nostalgia.
Absence of people
remembered.
The holidays are
but empty chaos now.
A cabin in the woods
sounds nice.
Yet one feels guilty
about not feeling like
it is a special day for the
sake of everyone else.
Just sinking into the soft,
primal imperfect now.