December Sonnet (Gift Wishes On It)

I.

I’m ramping up to season’s coming fare,
But sorrowfully admit I’ve lost two months –
And soon my sons wing home and without care,
For eating, sleeping, friends, and speaking grunts.

Familiar tones to this worn Momma’s ear,
As car keys snatched, I’ll sigh and then I’ll wait.
Is worry on the roads a gender fear?
Alas, some parent habits don’t abate.

Regressive attitudes and acts appear,
When college students find themselves back home.
Those dirty socks and dishes – must they steer
Their way from boys’ rooms and then wildly roam?

I set my mood and mode to “calm” – then breathe;
Much kinder in this season than to seethe.

II.

Ornaments I have, but tree? Have not.
Menorah too I have, but candles, nay;
Side by side traditions we will trot
Into the open, likely Christmas day.

Pictures must be taken (I insist).
My Boys-to-Men will roll their eyes and squirm.
Cards I have, but photos on the list?
Too late in time, my Prodigals return.

We’ll snap the pictures quickly all the same;
To measure how they’ve grown and changed is sweet.
The images I have, but albums came –
And empty – went with years that seem too fleet.

And gifts upon my mind! As yet unbought!
Why is it I have offered this no thought?

III.

Massive foodstuffs still to be acquired.
(My planning yet undone, I fear the worst.)
If I could run from home – ‘twould be desired!
(Dark shades and lashes, cult disguises first.)

And stalwart, I confess I will be brave;
My M. O. once was shopping – now complete,
Instead I torture Shakespeare in his grave,
With (badly, madly) sonnetizing beat.

One son would like a sweater, so he says,
The other? I’ve no clue. He’d choose “surprise.”
May I wrap them up a little Pez?
Wind up gizmos? Dress shirts? Stripey ties?

My boys, no longer kids, will have changed taste;
I’d better conjure something here – post haste!

IV.

How fast before we hit the Empty Fridge?
My planning must be tight, that Budget Stretch;
Oh for the days when I could be sweet Gidge –
That smile! Those dreams! The beach! (And not a kvetch.)

Are college throngs perhaps your way en route?
Mine still have projects, finals, then to fly.
Their beds I have, fresh sheets have not, oh zut –
“So much to clean! So much to do!” I cry.

I cannot hide nor turn back tides of time,
And parenthood, its own bewildering art.
I can take refuge in ungodly rhyme,
Then welcome boys with open arms and heart.

The Empty Nest is hard at first and then
I thrill to have them home, my sons, Good Men.