Christmas Thaw

Mild moisture against your cheeks.
December, gassing up for the trip,
coat open, without gloves,
enveloped in gray sky.

The past is entirely present
in the smell of gas,
the spot of rain on your glasses,
no rushing, only standing
in this tranquil windless day,
preparing, in no hurry.

You have told this rosary
years without end, countless beads
slipped through the hand,
memories melted
in Decembers' warmest days,
in a scatter of drops
from a nothing-special sky,
the high stars invisible
in the even morning light.

Jeanne Desy, 1999