it is just past Christmas,
and the air smells strangely like salt,
as if we were the sea, or had been
crying for days.
fog steams from the folds
and valleys of my father’s house; we
rake gravels back
into the drive—
the hard little memories
of snowploughs past—
tidying up edges, sweeping
aside leaf mould and the damp
with calloused hands.
isn’t this always
how it is at year’s end?
only
i am almost listening
for seagulls,
for the squawk
of some new thing
being born.
-
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the tenth muse 
smells strangely like salt,
as if we were the sea, or had been
crying for days.
Good God ! You are a real poet of the nth degree !
Wow. High praise indeed, Carl. Thank you, sir!
And the title Unseasonable matches the salt which seasons us in life. Salt does stopping bleeding to a degree. Bleeding of the heart and soul ?
Loved this one. The gulls and the smell of the sea are evocative of so many things.
Thank you! Glad it found some resonance with you.
It did 🙂
Happy New Year
Thanks, Carl! Hope yours is off to a great start!
Babe, you flavor things with bittersweetness and no one does that better. Loved the aching hope here. Happy New Year! Love Mosk