Finally, resolution

You are at home tonight on a far West

coast with lemonade and tentative

buds calling for Spring

Here the rapid railcars will soon be

crossing, our windows busy with defrost

The year

will end chilly for us inland, southwest

as we idle in forgettable pauses

attempting to resurrect

promises we failed to keep in the passing

Next time I will hitch instead of drive

next time as

poems arrive in fitful dreams.

Pilgrimage: Day 52: The Last Day

the day before
the last day
of the year
the aisles of the grocery
store
the sidewalks of the city
streets
are crowded
there is a slight movement
toward sunlight
toward soft furry buds
on trees
toward camellias
and magnolias
bursting into pink and white
fervor
toward
hope

of the Season

Outside it's the slip of tires

against streets as the snow

is visible as streetlights blink on

as the train crosses the intersection

and the evening promises a star

As the silences find a way in

and the piano is tuned for

the coming of the sound of humans

praying and a cup of tea

steeping, fork against plate

Pilgramage: 51: Coffee

#49 Climb

We are the season's silhouettes

We climb the coastline or mountain

to pray for the light that slips inside

when we string the tree in red or

light the tea candles that flicker

in sacks on the walk in the evening

We visit those we love the most

as day shortens, carrying poinsettias

and cameras, as promise arrives

wrapped in a box that whispers

surprise when we shake it

Pilgrimage: #50: Late Afternoon

it is later than you think
the sun deceives as it hovers
gold and pink above
Mad River
the air is cold not warm
and the light fades swiftly
the week before Solstice
it is later than you think
it I always later than you think

Pilgrimage: #49: Brew

some beer is bitter
some full of yeast as good bread
Guiness is for ice cream
or a trip to an English pub

Pilgrimage: 48 Days: Language

the language of the Mass
has changed
it tracks the ancient Roman speech
and proclaims that we are all men
again
I try to accept this light blow
this small paper cut
and simply listen
from the margin
again
if it were only a call to listen
to pay strict attention
to the word I say
I would not feel this pain
again

Losing Count. 46, 47, 48.

The bank wrote today.

Santa will be in their lobby

next week for photos.

'Tis the season.

Am I too old to sit

on the old man's

lap. What would

baby Jesus think?

Continuing to make Art

Still coloring childlike inside

the lines until madness takes over

or lack of sleep and then the angel

appears on the wall, blonde

reincarnate with charcoal

eyes that holler scribble

whisper poems, whisper sanity

scrawl perfectly imperfect art

Pilgrimage: Day #47: Walking On Walls

when I was a little girl
I walked easily on the edge
of fences I walked fearlessly 
looked into backyards
teased the dogs that couldn't quite reach
saw the green tips of asparagus in Spring
and the frost on furrows as Fall fell
into Winter
I still balance precariously
as I move along the edge of fences
that I raised in dreams in words
in lines hidden
in the clouds