Idealist

It’s a joyful convocation, the one I dream of—

a glimmering jubilee where jolly friends and family 

clasp hands around an altar all aglow with light and silver.

All are clapping, praising, toasting

laughing and embracing, spinning 

delicious tales that kindle cheering up and down the rows.

Steaming dishes spiced and tinted as prescribed by generations

hurry down the table rousing awe and clamor as the children 

suck on fruity brews and their elders swig the beer and wine—

spiking fancies all the more.

Not a soul declines to linger after every belly has been stuffed

to remember one more wise or zesty story, swallow one more spoon

of Harvest Torte—so delighted and so thankful seems each and every one

for this communion.

And when ochre shadows finally flush the hearth,

when burning timber snaps and glistening candles drip,

my old yearnings all have faded. I am happy here just being 

knowing time is melting, melting with the whipped cream on the torte.