Grace and Peace to you.
After the glut of sparkle and sentiment,
all that heavy gold and glory,
it’s kind of a relief to return
to an orderly house, a clean mantle,
a blue and white shirt, the regular dishes.
The world is plain, snow is crusted,
trees more bare than in November.
The marsh like the underside of a carpet,
the cattails bland and spent.
The asphalt road has nothing to say,
the gray sky shrugs and says, “Ditto.”
God stands there,
hands in the pockets of a drab jacket,
gazing at the brook’s blank of ice,
says, “Yeah, I like to hang out here.
It’s relaxing. Clears my head.”
I come home to a quiet house,
refrigerator humming. This too is holy.
I sit on the couch, gaze out at the yard.
“Huh,” I say. “What do you know?
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