Come, come in
Come sit by my fire
Warm your soul, and your heart, and your fingers
You are invited in, to take your place
It is the season of gratitude,
and I am grateful for you
It is November now,
the bacchanalia of autumn color yields
to the season of the sticks
and the grey,
the litter of Nature's final
lavish extravaganza
lies strewn about,
like trash and detritus
windblown and piled in
corners and curbs
of Times Square,
when the sun rises
after the ball drops
The scurrying burrow creatures
hurriedly gather their last bits
of meals and stockpiling
before the deepening chill
when the Great Slumber begins
I feel them
in my bones
as I fixate on
their urgency
and my sloth
This is not my time;
to shine
or anything else
the grey and dreary weigh
like a blanket over my own head
But we defy the gravities
of the turning earth tilting away
Fire and lampglow
spark in defiance
of the season of darkness,
when against all odds
we welcome hope in
weary and drained
draped in whatever tatters remain,
to warm its chilly feet
by our fire
We shall make a feast
of gratitude
and remembrance
the uproarious and glorious
colors still dancing
in our minds
and on our screens
held in amber by our digital
dreamcatchers
to help us through
the long dark now looming
and lingering
Come in, and bring your troubled heart here
Set its burdens by my burrow door
Make a plate
Warm yourself
here we are each
Welcome
and hungry
