Rummaging through the local book haunt
I bought a volume with the perfect poem
to read to you tonight.
Paid cash for it,
wrinkled bills & odd coinage.
I thought this apropos
since I had spent
the better part of the morning
worn from a teasing gauntlet
created by my children.
Shocked they were,
to see my feelings actually hurt.
So like children, always hoping
the invulnerable mother vulnerable.
Yet regretful, even fearful,
to discover it is so.
My ankle, hip ache
from the spontaneous afternoon sled ride
down the snow-crushed hill,
my children having watched
as I tumbled head
over heels over head.
Still I stood and smiled,
a bit dizzy but solid.
Now ink mottles the window pane
and the book is here,
on the cluttered dining table
I was supposed to set an hour ago.
I cannot find that poem
which called to me when it was surrounded
by a book-spine spectacular
The poem is nowhere to be found.
I have thumbed through it
several times; it is not there.
There are other fine poems,
but the one poem is gone.
The one perfect to read to you tonight,
this night, this last night before tomorrow,
before a whole new year begins,
the year you have proclaimed will be good:
More joy than pain (or at least equal amounts).
More recognition than invisibility,
more companionship than loneliness.
It will be better in so many ways,
better than so many past years.
Better, at least, than this past last year.
Joy, happiness, all that other stuff
will not be elusive, will not be figment,
will be found on the same page
each time it is turned.
(cc) Karen G. Johnston