Pull down the attic stairs
to feel some very convincing cold.
Banish the Indian corn, the ceramic pumpkin,
the last crumbs of piecrust
from the kitchen counter.
Swear off turkey in any form.
Gather the greens and fill the basin,
collect four tapers to count the weeks
of coming. Sweep the floors
in that bleached near-winter sun
that shows every speck, finds the cracks
we’ll be letting light into.
Before the more, the too much, the chairs
pushed back from another feast,
there is the pause, this breath,
the grace of emptiness,
the span of space and waiting.
Happily joining in with daily prompts
for December with other good folks