The old church bells ring,
signaling the middle of the day.
Clouds try their best
to hold together against the sun.
They’re gonna win today.
They have a friend
in the East wind.
Fat and snow laden,
they creep back in
over the mountains,
like the tight formation
of a bombing run.
That’s okay.
Snow isn’t’ the worst thing.
It would be colder
if the sky was clear,
because the sun sets early
and a starry night in December
usually comes with the risk
of frostbite.
Playful time of year,
but this round it feels
somehow subdued.
The lights are out
along Main Street,
and even in the soft light
of a cloudy afternoon,
the shops and people
wear colors and ornaments
reserved only for this
festive time of year.
I am suddenly aware
of a strange feeling
of loneliness and disconnection.
Here,
on this busy,
small town street,
I feel like a man apart.
Not out of my timeline,
but separated only for this moment.
Perhaps it is age.
Perhaps it is reflection.
Then, I realize
that I am not really here at all.
This is a memory,
and I haven’t lived
in this quiet mountain town
for twenty-five years.
That old church bell
that used to ring
to sound out the middle
of each day,
only rings once a year, now
on Christmas.
DJR – 2022
