I'm holding on.
To things like the promise of
December taking care of me.
Being full of promise
and angels and
snowflakes on the tip of my nose.
The moon is already sharp and bright,
squinting at me
and crowning my head with solitude.
Tom Waits is singing on the radio
about a chocolate Jesus.
As the world waits for Christmas.
Come December,
come.
Image via google search
Currently reading
* The way it is*
The selected poems of William Stafford
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Pretty misty stars