The Natural Gifts of December

The pond is solid memory now.

Even the sun appears less necessary.

All is locked. At rest.

Think death if you must

you would be wrong.

Footprints.

The not human

and the human seeking

the not human. Seeking

to read black tracks

pressed in long darks

and arabesque messages

frozen in time the way

a Canadian grandmother

read the tea keeping secrets.

The way violet-roots wreath,

unseen but known,

and a fire Christmas Eve

requires we wood gather now.

Patricia Ranzoni lives in Bucksport. Her most recent collection of poetry is “Only Human” published by Sheltering Pines Press.