Lake Burton, Georgia
December 24, 2009
I drift awake in a strange chair
alone in an unfamiliar room
bathed in late-day light.
My running pundit mutters, confused
as phantom insights flash and fade
from the realm of unrecovered dreams.
Silhouettes of small birds
streak by the high window
that frames a tiny swath of sky.
As scattered moments slowly cohere,
I sense again the vague regret –
another slice of life gone by.
But fire warms the gray stone hearth
and glad voices drift from the kitchen
in busy rhythms of conversation.
The day regroups.
The season peaks.
The sun resumes its cycle.
Through stale corridors,
sharp currents of cinnamon and savory
carry hints of transcendence come – Christmas is baking.