Poetry by Steve Wilson
No snow for Christmas in Texas, where nevertheless
the inflatable snowman across the street seems jovial
enough. In place of new-fallen snow, we’ve
a freshly mown lawn and, in our front garden,
five yellow flowers confused into blooming
by warm afternoons and clear skies. Still,
the neighbors’ twinkling lights manage to coax us all
toward something approaching goodwill with the world
that’s stubbornly churning along upon its complaints
and recriminations, its internet trolls, its rising rages.
Candles glow in windows here and there. Someone
has tethered a Santa to their chimney; it totters drunkenly
upon the breeze. We’re weary of this weariness, the lot
of us. Bumbling through. Mumbling. Humming
ragged fragments of carols as we worry our way
through the evening’s always breaking news.
Steve Wilson‘s poetry has appeared in journals and anthologies nationwide; as well as in six collections, the most recent entitled Complicity. He lives in San Marcos, TX.
