Christmas

However hard I try to shake this fantasy
I still can't cease to see familiar details--
The light on your glasses, the curls
On your gently weathered forehead,
Your whisper voice against my damp
Earlobe. Corduroy imprints on skin.
I beg at morning break and fall of night
For some Spirit to carry the illusion of Love
From me--this satchel of impossible dreams--
Out with the compost, into rich red Mother Earth.
Yet by noon's light, my compulsive daily fingers
Drag a stick in dreamers sand and carve
Your name there, on the beach,
Far enough as to never see
The ocean swallow up my wish...