jethro’s daughter: “december at the door”

by Allister Nelson

The harvest came late this year, tilling

bones in soil like spare ribs from a dragon.

I dug deep, planting winter cabbage – up

sprouted a great beast – the ghost of December.

December hulked, December moaned, at the door

of December, ephemeral spirits of the lost keened

like wailing winds. December stood in her ivory gown

and cried, a banshee. Her long white hair, the scars

atop her shoulders that cut like a scythe.

The Doors of December let all in, and allow nothing

to escape. The year creeps up, the hoes and rakes

bring in only gravel and ice, planting dead barrows

and corpses in place of goblin fruit. All that blossoms

in December’s brains is regret, but sometimes, she smiles.

And that is enough.

It.

Is always.

Enough.

(her smile)

*Stay tuned for Allister Nelson’s next installment of Jethro’s Daughter next week.