The long shadows fall

December Light

The long shadows fall across the early walk.
Like dark knives sensing Christmas geese,
they lengthen to preserve the flavor of fine
cuts. The reminisce of summer plums sweeten to
stain the morning, breaches round margins that
rupture in pressed surrender from damson skin.

Love is like this. When leaves have retreated
into the branch that burst them, the red-gold
scatter that trailed autumn in a slow robe lies
flung like a hunger befallen first time lovers.
New breathing sweats the uneven glass; light
moves with a purpose not rendered apparent in

the first cup. November has yet to recoup its
unceded mystery. There is no hurry in snow.
The false blue of these Prussian skies will not
anchor the promise of favorable weather. Cold
pretends no conscience and whatever shelter one
despairs must be sought in the huddle of another.



This is the way of winter. Sun will hoist you onto
its hydrogen shoulders, allow you to kettle your
brief bones as you take in the grandeur of fire and
fallow fields. You may bask in the root labor that
once seasoned the rows only to bow graceless and
underscored, an adagio in the mute yield of nutrient.

The long shadows fall across the late walk.
Like cloistered ravens they convene and confer,
pass law in the immutable language of evening.
Leaves and lovers, robed summer plums slip like
summoned knives into the sheathblock that stills the
deep rouse, dulls the sharp flint of December light.

Joseph Gallo
December 5, 2006