By Bill Ramsey
December’s first day dawns,
presenting an unexpected sketch
between my beaten path’s margin
and a recently resurgent river’s bank.
A patch of park is neatly etched
beneath a tree’s elongated umbra.
The tall rusty cypress unknowingly
casts a silhouette of a Christmas tree.
Blades of grass bend like boughs
under the weight of a fresh frost.
The rootless tree lies all trimmed,
for a while, untouched by sunrise,
a fleeting mirage alongside currents,
where seditious baskets might eddy.
But we remain, as shadows shorten
and frost melts. We stay behind,
lying in wait among the river’s reeds,
scouting for signs of an unruly reign,
where no one need dutifully bow,
but each freely bows to all others.
Disenthralled, fleeing our illusions,
we wade into expectant shoals,
keeping watch for untethered
baskets, cradles unsuppressed.