"...we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table..."
--Recuerdo, Edna St. Vincent Millay
Soon, when December is,
The wind turned all around, speaking its glacial wails,
The snows shook out like sugar-coating auspices,
Or snowless steel blue northers driving home their nails
And boarding up with ice and misty bodices
The swording gusts that blaze
The unleafed skylines and the sighing treetip buoys,
We will, among these signs along our several ways,
Remember, you and me, beauties among the beauties,
Remembrances, our telling strata phase and phase
Where we are yet discovered clue by cryptic clue,
Not lost at all, not severed, how though seasons flee
To their oblivions. December is for you,
Always. Always, December is your gift from me.
Wes Hight, Texas Mensan, won an award from the American Poetry Association. Why are so many good poets from Texas?
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