Wednesday, December 2, 2009


by Carol Drummond

We fold another year
Like the last page of a calendar
Its promises now history
Its tomorrows now yesterdays.
Time tucks it softly in a drawer
To join past years' moments
Some bidden 
Some not.
Each carries its own scent
And casts its own hue.
We recognize the fragrance
Of hope and gratitude
The blue skies of birth
And the gray which stains our losses.
December -- a month, a history.
December speaks our past.
December promises a new page.

Labels:  December, Poem

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