Bathed in the act of forgetting
still upright light endowed
upright on crutches drinking
only what I give it giving
all that it can a few winks
now and then ball-catcher.
What other relic withstands
this kind of stand-up once
cut letting its light emanate
only for delight like a hundred
stars in the night fractured
by its own limbs? In this chaos
it is difficult to tell what’s true
what’s green what’s there
what’s to be had against
what’s to be hadn’t—hadn’t
happened hadn’t been cut hadn’t
seeded tiny sprouts—
earth’s soft down. A hundred
eyes calling out singing yes
yes. They are saying yes to me
with white eyes yes to us yes to the cat
yes to this room yes to these gifts yes
to O Holy Night holy cow hollied bough
glass birds and beaded eggs in springly nests
yes O holy tree yes.

Poem first published at Every Writers Resources.

© 2013-2015 Grace Curtis