December is the ocean
that Ararat remembers.
The yellow months open and shut
like moth wings,
the purple months, like crocuses.
But Novembers close with an arctic slap
and Ararat remembers that.
“It was quiet.
Even the little birds whose hearts
beat in fits and starts were still
or gone, and that was odd.”
“Then the motion of the grasses,
how the waves went through the hills.
It was cold.
I felt the hand of God.”
December is the sting of salt
the shock of lost time
that dispels the selfish afternoons,
it says Wake up
the floodgates are opened.
What are you about?
The doors of the ark are shut.
in the deep days of December also swim
fresh memories of Him
Author and Protagonist of earth,
and the truth
is worth the waking.