a poem

Dec. 1st, 2009 09:37 pm
zanzjan: (snow zookie)
On the Occasion of Arriving Home to Find A Gift At My Door

Dearest Mom, O Mother of mine,
I hope that you are feeling fine.
The box you sent arrived today,
My thanks I feel I ought to say.

I think of Christmas gifts gone by:
Like too-small shoes that made me cry
Ugly sweaters that gave me pause
Deodorant 'from Santa Claus'

Make-up for the natural girl
Fruitcakes, alas, that made me hurl
Books I read back in second grade
Socks in my least favorite shade.

But this! It has a big bright bow,
And pine-cones too, all sprayed with 'snow'.
Three tall candles, in merry red,
That fit just right in their spruce bed.

It shows up at my winter door
And spreads its fresh pine scent all o'er.
For six years now, consistently,
This beauty's what you've sent to me.

But while some gifts have left me blue
(Rocks and boots will do that, true)
A sorry truth must needs be said:
These centerpieces leave me red.

O! Please don't think I mean I'm mad!
Just, this talk we've already had.
Spruce, you know, makes me itch and sneeze --
It's one of my known allergies.

So while the thought is very kind,
Pretty please, if you would not mind,
Instead of trying to kill me dead,
Can I just have some socks instead?
zanzjan: (Default)
I Heard A Bird Sing
by Oliver Herford

I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December.
A magical thing
And sweet to remember.

'We are nearer to Spring
Than we were in September,"
I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December.
zanzjan: (Default)
Outside. A deep breath.
The scent of ginkgos in fall
Like Satan's own turds.

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