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December

by David Driedger





It's the first day of December
And the last thing I'll remember
is walking across Portage Avenue
heart in my hand and snow in my shoe
A night when the smooth symbols of my tradition are having their faces raked across the chipped ice on the sidewalk.

A night when the frost in my beard is more real than the hand of my Maker.
And the question is obvious
"What if I have nothing to say to my Savior?"
A place where clarity is present, but reality is not.
a place where clarity was present, but clarity got shot

With five minutes before the warmth of a coffee and the rest of chair
my thoughts ran out the holes in my feet.
pierced by the invisible knives of a winter which recruited well
all those killers of life and of limbs vacationing from their cold, cold hell.

Forgetting that warmth can be more painful than cold I scribble this down.
In a place where clarity is present and reality is not.
and the question is obvious,
"What happens when I have nothing to say my Savior?"

In a night sky of angels and devils,
a voice and a cry
the light of an only dark moon.
the warmth gone from a heat that came to soon.
A Savior and this winter,
a blessing in hearse
A Savior and my splinter
a winter's evening curse
it was the first day of December.







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