The Calendar and the Hive
As the sun moves towards the south,
The collective hive spends more time inside.
The general drone of conversation
Grows increasingly incessant.
Without the welcome sunlight, many turn
To artificial means of generating warmth.
A homeless man holds a bottle of alcohol,
Almost full for the present.
Those who work for a living must find
Some compensation other than a pay check.
They purchase feelings of self-worth
Along with a tie for Uncle Harold.
The calendar rushes past,
Punctuated by agreed-upon observances.
Everything happens according to commerce
And misconstrued tradition.
The finest rites are carried out in private,
Duly noted in the records of our hearts.
No festive celebration can compete
With a quiet act of kindness.
©2016 Michael Fraley
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