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Epiphany
by nathan hitchcock
We haul the days
To the edge of the year
And gladly part with them,
As anticlimactic as they turned out to be.
Mom doesn't cry as the
Curdled eggnog gets dumped.The skies are glazed,
Thinly clouded in that odd way
Where we squint, opening the blinds of
The perpetually dreary house
Like infants peeking from their placid womb.The backyard is stolid
Leaves floating in archaic breeze
Compost pile getting higher
Mulching into sweetrot
Ushering in prospects of Spring.
But there's still the leftovers of the year.
This is the time of remembrance
And consecration of memories,
The sights and sounds and scents
As we pushed our way through incense
Wearing religion like perfume,
Dizzy as we paraded into mass,
Masses of worshippers and acolytes
With angels flying through the colonnade.
We ordained Jesus briefly,
Only to leave salvation incarnate crying in the pews,
Eager to return home and loot the generosity
Of tradition incarnate in a fat man.But it's all trash bags and photo albums now.
We haul the days to the edge of the year
Days as foreign as a Christmas tree in January.