Thursday before Christmas, 2023

Rev. Douglas Olds

It’s Thursday again, the day the leafblowers pass through, their high whine

Whittling like a penknife my ears to round out the hastening by of weeks

their insistent noise from men to purchase a Saturday night beer I cannot begrudge (I know, I know), yet

How can these weeks so fast elapsing to my unbalancing?

as hollowed out by noise’s quick rush, my vision is these ears’ tunneling junction:

Like weeks of leafblowers the cars’ high beams at night rush and warp my neck from the the weave lanes

Buoys Proliferating like drying flowers dropped on caskets, 

an allegory’s condensation: "God is love," wrote the Presbyter; "Our God is a consuming fire," says the unnaming author 

And now I’ve burned the pancakes again

The walnut flour shatters into ashy resentment

I recoil from the stove like from a bad movie

While new babies come in and the old exit and the world’s limb struggles to get out of gurneys

To meet cohorts of striving possible

It’s not the challenges of programming gadgetry as much as

To but dial up fresh smiles as friends move away parents fade slow siblings claw the walls of addiction

One more Thursday then Christmas to sing its angel  through:

"Behold, he lies in his manger, Calling to himself Me and you..."

Joyfully my heart to leap as healing wings bring e’er anew