Has her waxing poetic about scarecrows,
There's no time or place
For little lacy shoes
But mama bear's gnarling her teeth again,
There's no waterworks now,
It's nearing December,
The sky is black as the Kalua
In papa bear's glass tumbler,
It's nearing December
The air is dry like a mathematician's
Ghost, drawing parables in the sky
For the Norse Gods.
Mama's God is turning into a fat uterine lining,
There are crystals coalescing in odd places,
Golden dreams of lighthouses
And walking on gelatinous water,
Laughter and the pit-pat of invisible feet
Don't go unnoticed in the kitchen,
Suddenly there are elaborate meals,
Opened cookbooks strewn across the counters.
There are names to write
On stockings that aren't there,
Chocolate and shopping aren't destinations
On a voyage that has a direct path under stars,
The ship is full sail
And the course is set,
Through the eons of starlit miraculous unknowns,
Delicious meals and storybooks
Punctuate the hours
Gliding forward
Rising and falling,
On the breath of the vast Ocean.
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