The Passing of December Souls

Amaranth, purple in my mouth.

I'm staring out the window, watching pixies

as they light up the road,

as they escort the December souls.

Together they travel south

to meet with the nixies,

the water sprites riding toad--

the psychopomps of the December souls.

***

I place the amaranth in a jar;

I go downstairs.

I watch my grandmother in a chair;

her eyes glazed over, her mouth trembling.

I know her fate's under a certain star--

a star that's ready to give up its nightmares,

a star readying to hear my grandmother's final prayer.

My grandmother's skin now resembling

the color of the December souls:

those souls that travel the wood with pixies,

those souls that travel the water with nixies.

It's time to meet the maker and pay the tolls.