Crescendos toward December sound, like wind
a-whooshing through the fall toward winter’s blast.
All elm tree foliage has come unpinned
and ground is covered in those crisps that last

until the earth’s adorned in gowns of white.
We march to our Thanksgiving, make big plans,
then Christmas shows its colors day and night.
We gather families and our friends, our clans

to celebrate. But what of days between?
What ordinary Tuesday strikes a chord
of music, makes us polish to a sheen
our house? We are the lady and the lord

of this, our manor, and we do not wait
for special times. Each one is special, yes,
and so we dust it off and note the date.
A tree, lake, note, a word means more, not less

as time plods on. Or does time race? I hold
the precious close without apology,
for I can feel it. I am getting old.
Please keep the lights bright on my life’s marquee.