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My family is here, and it is nearly Christmas, and tomorrow is our day. We’ve always gone hard in the paint on Christmas Eve. Santa comes with the big gifts on Christmas day, but we do the family presents, all extensive and thoughtful, on Christmas Eve. Anyhow, it feels nice to have my folks here.

They brought me a chapbook of Richard Roberts’ poems, and they are brilliant and thoughtful, and true. One of my favorites is The Door:

The Door

I bought a door
And hung it in a hole
to swing and leave an opening
or make a barricade,
For coming out and closing in,

It was a choice I bought
And it hung well,
For swinging with a touch
Or locking.

I bequeath this door to you
to bequeath
Until its wall is fallen, and in is out, and out is in.


I knew this poet, but in all my years, all near to grown, I did not know he was a poet. All I knew was his art, just the ink and lines.

I’m feeling all warm and gushy, so I’m going to write about that. Christmas spirit and whatnot. It is better than humbug.

It Occurred to Her

It occurred to her, blank and alone amongst the trees, that this is what she had desired. It visited her briefly, the thought that the truest love makes hermits of the best of us, and that all mountain families are happy in their own way, which is alone, alone, alone. Who else could take the pulses of trees and make a chorus out of the creek? Only the loneliest and most comfortable together, the ones who desire nothing but the other in flannel pajamas, nothing but visions forgetful, of board games and rock stations and a love all vibrant and recharging with each touch. Yes, this occurred to her, while she listed on the lichen and worried about the stain on her pants, yes, the she realized that was a big love like the sighting of a new planet, that it was holy like a funereal for the brave, all holy like the October rain. All in an instance she thought, upon looking up at the house, that there is no place like home, and never will be, not ever again. The car door bent under the weight of that decision, the one to come to a big love, to warm clothes, and wool drying, and the partial cold, and no one in this orbit can remain idle, no one can stand idle against the car. But some can glance upwards, some of can look for stars up in the freshest dark, like a newcomer, all searching and new.


“I trust you with the memory of me, we are on one, and always will be.” –Richard Roberts.

Hugs to you, my poem friends, on the eve of Christmas Eve. Happy Tuesday.