A Winter Original Poem

What The Holidays Are Not About

This morning I snapped this photo of my neighbor's holiday decorations. It reminded me of my vow to not shop on Thanksgiving and not to buy any plastic crap this holiday season. Cherish your loved ones and support local and independent businesses, where you know your purchases will help families stay home and celebrate, versus slaving in corporate stores so we can consume more things made in China. The poem I am sharing today was written by me in college, about 12 years ago. It is pure fiction, as my grandma passed when I was very small, but it is one I enjoy and I hope you do, too. 

Midnight at Whitefish Dunes

By Clare Corcoran

Grandma brought me to the beach to meet the sky.
To become intimate with the stars, we drove away
from glare of city lights across frozen farms,
me wedged tight between my mother and her mother,

with Daddy's telescope in the backseat. The Leonid's
should be spectacular tonight, Grandma declared,
and knowing that I didn't know, Momma whispered low,
that's a meteor shower, shooting stars across the

snow. We unfurled the tripod on the frozen sand,
and I watched Grandma's bony hand pointing above
Michigan's shore, her small body shivering with
each static trail sparking from January sky.

We stood there, three silent generations, sipping
hot cider from steel thermos and listening as
stars crashed into waves, where heavens met water.
I said that I wished that Grandpa was here, but

Grandma took my small hand in her withered palm
and we reached out together in the starflare night,
with the texture of lake wind in our noses. A meteor
exploded, the brightest one yet, she squeezed my hand

and answered, He is still here with us, tonight.