Christmas in Espanola Valley
Sunday Afternoon
The bright morning sun
Now drops to the western horizon
The day’s light slips into the cracks and canyons
Shadows have grown long
The windmill quiet as if waiting
The sky cloudless
There are strong contrasts of lights and darks
The outlines of the mountains
Drawn hardedge
Their shapes defined
The limbs of the bare trees
Create patterns of lace
Against an empty pale blue sky
Traffic lights blink
The ribbon of cars slows down
Christmas trees
Cut this morning
Lean against a white truck
In the parking lot
Each looks a little forlorn
Waiting to be selected
A large Christmas sign of red candles
Lighted at the top like flames
Blazes Merry Christmas
To Sunday afternoon travelers
December 17, 2018
2 comments:
I always think the trees look sad too. I can see the scene you have painted with your words so clearly, especially the mountains in the fading light.
Wonderful evocation of setting and place, the world paints out before us in the poem, loving the layer of details and this subtle poignant personification:
"The windmill quiet as if waiting"
Sometimes the whole point is just to settle and be in a place and a time and feel it, this poem does that so well.
Post a Comment