Adrienne Veronese

December licks the winter garden with an icy tongue
and I am left to wonder if there will be too little green
to gift neighbors with on the eve of newborn Kings.

Despite tales of old and promises of eternity
I begin to suspect this is no longer the season of wonder
of miracle births and hope for resurrection.
The focus was long ago shifted to the gifts
that were brought to the manger
and now we must recreate that legend in order to stay asleep
in the dream that it was really all about the shiny things.

I do little more than celebrate the birth of a modern King
with cabbages I dig from this impossible soil
and see my worth defined by how much green I produce.
The King nods his head in approval
and defines the fallow gardens unwilling and therefore unworthy.
More cabbages are laid at his altar in support
of his exhortations as I eye the compost bin
and wonder how much of what he says will fit inside.

I contemplate the prospect of living on nothing but cabbages
for the rest of the winter and realize I would need
to wear loose fitting clothes and keep all the windows open
to accommodate the bloat and vent all the gas
that invariably builds up.


Christmas 2013