7 December 2024

By Philip Kuepper

Bows of snow
nose boats
that sat docked
overnight
in the fall of white
from the overstuffed
comforter of heaven,
feathery flakes, each one having
landed with the sound of a breath.
I feel the Universe breathing
as I step out into the cold morning.
I breathe in time with it.
I inhale the freshness of the solstice.
There is a faintly sweet smell to it,
the smell of perfect ripeness,
a solstice ready to savor.
And dawn being the color of champagne
is apt drink to accompany
this celebratory day.
Champagne for breakfast?
It’s that time of year.
And the poached egglike sun
which surely must be set on toast.
Boats groan as they pull on the ropes
that bind them to pilings.
They whelp like pups
longing to be let loose.
But the new fall of snow,
and the frigid envelope of air,
keeps fishermen tucked into the warmth
of the cafe, tucked among warehouses.
They wait for thaw.

(24 December 2023)