'Tis the Season

My family is very small
and live so far away

from one

another.

We are but four:

One in Sweden, north even of Stockholm which has a syndrome;

one in Sweetwater, West Texas, where neither sweetness nor the comfort of soft rain abides, only wind;

One in the city, one in the woods of Colorado.

We sometimes gather, and avoid old wounds. We are careful of one other, cautious of our relative space.

We harbor great love and hurt and vast deep affection, yet seasons come and go when we do not break bread or take quilts down from the closets, nor do we polish the silver in anticipation.

We are few, and far away.

Manna

Manna

by Joseph Stroud

Everywhere, everywhere, snow sifting down,
a world becoming white, no more sounds,
no longer possible to find the heart of the day,
the sun is gone, the sky is nowhere, and of all
I wanted in life – so be it – whatever it is
that brought me here, chance, fortune, whatever
blessing each flake of snow is the hint of, I am
grateful, I bear witness, I hold out my arms,
palms up, I know it is impossible to hold
for long what we love of the world, but look
at me, is it foolish, shameful, arrogant to say this,
see how the snow drifts down, look how happy
I am.

"Manna" by Joseph Stroud, from Of This World. © Copper Canyon Press, 2009.