Richard St. John: December, New Millennium

So warm, the hedges almost bloom, though the jagged skeletons

of fake, electric icicles are twined along a front-yard chain-link fence.

In the windows, faded Steelers signs, tribal gear still out

although the season’s done.  Lazy, from the playground, comes

the pock…pock…pock and thunk of  basketball.  And on the bus today,

a man, almost theatrical, in calf-high boots and cape, was reading

a garden book: bright pink and purple squares – laurels, rhododendrons –

species being forced beyond this climate zone.   Yet for us, it’s

this kiss of almost summer, fragrant with transience and sun.

It’s like magic: the air so breathy, we pretend

our leisurely earth is washing itself again.   Though, in the end,

magic will not save us, cape and wand, rituals and signs, potions,

costly powders, tusks and bones, procured from tawdry

dealers in such things, shark fins, albino skin, rhinoceros horn.

From Each Perfected Name (Truman State). Copyright 2015 Richard St. John.