Still Angry

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #240, poetry in the midwinter pause.

Art by Michael Whelan

Still angry at the bauble, the key to the vanished door

Kept on a shelf as an inert memory, as dust-flavored time

No one said we kept possibility just out of reach

At least of the less-brave children, who never walked a shelf

Or touched a bone or glass or a universe key

But still, somehow, were wiser for their walk on this shore

Than I have been making this discovery

There is a not-insignificant part of me that would love to take this and make of it a novel in between the holidays, to create something out of that gorgeous painting. However, that may just be a brain freeze from standing in my stocking feet on the driveway while James strung Christmas lights over the front bed he'd just massacred and was feeling slightly guilty about. Sorry about the salvia. Have some Christmas lights. :) 

front bed

In my head, the reindeer is about to eat his way through the candy cane lights. Hope this week brings joy and warmth, as much as possible. Merry, happy holidays! 

-- Chrissa