Last Day in Blue December
            after Maya Stein
by Lana Hechtman Ayers

A bird in the elderberry bush outside the bedroom window
chirrups like typewriter keys, waking us up.

As soon as we’re out of bed our little black pup’s tail pendulums
back and forth, as if ticking the moments until our trip to the yard

before her bark fast–how we say breakfast, my husband and I
because we are such silly folks.

As our dog pokes around in the yard’s hard ground, the frigid
late December air fogs my glasses, the world a blue blur

like being underwater, a goldfish kind of grace, and I sneeze once–
Someone told me that’s like sending a piece of your soul across time.

Her business done, back inside, the little black dog leads us to
her kibble pellets to pour into the bowl that chimes its fullness.

While she’s crunching away my hubby switches the teapot on,
it begins its low rumble as I choose a favorite mug from the cupboard,

this one capacious, blue and green and barrel-shaped, cupping it
between my palms feels like embracing the wide world in my hands.

And how can I not smile as my beloved whistles a little Leonard Cohen
tune about an amazing blue raincoat?

Outside the kitchen window, a squirrel follows the map of bark
on the cedar from the base of its trunk all the way up to puffy cumulus.

Even if this is my last day, it’s already a good one.
The kettle roils with boil then clicks off as the soft blue LED light

fades away like a firework, but I believe there is more life to come–
a mugful at least for now, perhaps the whole new year, and then some.



 

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