a poem a day for a year #359

by Amy Turn Sharp


The zenith of the year, where you alternate quickly between bliss and heady sadness. The tiny lights blind you, make you cry and illuminate everything. And you look like an angel in the kitchen and the children run circles in the rug and they are happy. And your father puts Phil Collins on the stereo and "In the Air Tonight" blurs and twists through your house and you are just about the hit your stride with wine when the explosion of drums sends you somewhere and you run out the door on Christmas night and tell everyone and not a soul what you think about this year.