The Day After Christmas

The wind is cold, laced with sleet and your eyes blur with tears.
it is dark, a day of work done. A day of purpose when
you would rather have slept, spoiled by a Christmas day
where the greatest gift was the ability to sleep late,
eat well and worship quietly in your own head
without responsibility, tired sometimes

of being what you were made to be. WIshing for a bent
towards indolence and bad behavior, something more notorious
than the quiet spirit you have been gifted. More Oscar Wilde
than the mostly invisible man you have chosen to be.
Less safe. More bold. Less…. predictable.

You wonder as you cross to the stairs,
if it is too late to change, and you laugh at the childishness
of even thinking of reversing your nature,
because it is your nature, this quietness. Despite the daydreams,
you like your life. You like what you have become,
even if you sometimes daydream, like a child,
of being something glorously impractical,
daydreaming just enough to know you are alive.

The wind is cold,
laced with sleet,
and your eyes blur with tears.

About this poem.

Not sure where this one came from. I just stuck the picture up and wrote to what it said to me.
Even the slight blur sang to me this morning. The photograph is of my back porch.

Tom