You want a poem about December only it’s not winter yet.
Barely autumn, the leaves timidly changing their clothes.
I’ve spent mostly all day watching them out my window
except for a trip to the downtown library where I came out
arms full of books–poems and essays and stories.
Stories of men and women living out the December of life
only winter is supposed to be the end—
the end of growth, a drying up of the sap, falling fruit–
Cold, covered over with snow and ice is what I remember
of winter in Pennsylvania when I was in the spring of life.
Only now approaching winter it would seem that a few
aches and pains notwithstanding (I have a few)
I sense new life, as if the library were the mother and I the
nursing child searching hungrily for what will satiate me.
Who are these people—authors who wrote so eloquently and
why don’t I know them better? Where have I been?
What have I been doing instead of reading, especially the poets?
It appears that it’s not December yet.