The world turns gold, amber, brown—
leaves crisp underfoot like forgotten letters.
The lake house stirs from its long solitude,
windows blinking awake as tires crunch gravel.
From distant cities they come:
children peering through screen doors,
mothers nesting in knitted sweaters,
fathers spiraling pigskin through November air.
The table groans under the weight of memory—
mashed potatoes smooth as unspoken apologies,
pecan pie with its caramelized secrets,
green bean casserole crowned with onion crackle.
We wear our armor against the chill:
corduroy elbows, wellington boots,
flannel shirts smelling of woodsmoke
and the long drive home.
December waits in the wings,
but today time pools like gravy on a china plate.
No presents but presence—
the electric silence when hands brush
while passing the cranberries.
Outside, the lake performs its slow magic:
a heron’s wings stitch sky to water,
waves write and rewrite the shoreline,
while on the porch, my mother’s laughter
unspools like ribbon in the wind.
The TV mumbles football stats
to empty chairs. The young ones
have vanished into the dusk,
their shouts bouncing off the water
like skipped stones.
This is the alchemy of ordinary saints—
turkey bones and butter knives,
the way the oven light gilds my daughter’s face
as she checks the rolls one last time.
God doesn’t speak in burning bushes here,
but in the spaces between passing plates:
This is my body, given for you.
The sacrament of seconds.
The grace of gravy boats.
Let December come with its glittering lies.
Tonight we are time-rich,
bellies full of tomorrow’s leftovers,
hearts drunk on the now and now and now.
BB Grey--musings 
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