Exodus the exodus of the child into a foreign land is not so strange it happens, every day, though the faces of the tax collectors and the soldiers change the journey, so tiresome and wearying, waiting to see which way the wind blows, depending upon dreams and visions, creased heavily with cares, last-minute luggage packed hastily, but the baby gifts placed carefully at the bottom of the case, redolent of riches, incongruous, strange, yet predestined
Seasonal Photograph the image of you, a year older, taken in a State park in the blazing sun is most un-Christmas-like, though bordered by bells, tinsel, and holly the green of cactus behind you, the red of your pocket handkerchief will have to do, the marking of another year of lines, told in your visage, of the ordinary passage of time balanced by the words of some ancient hymn of celestial words and promises as familiar as your intake of breath, the tapping, impatient, of your fingers, as the days tick down towards puddings and roasts, the blank boxes, bereft again of their silken ribbons, their work done
Journey we come, bearing gifts, across deserts, green-brown patchworks of fields, guided by those stars we seek out, blazing away like the fire stoked in the furnace, warming hearth, and home, and heart and we wait, too, for the cards carrying the annual weather report, proud robin preening in his gilt border, puffed out breast a drop of blood against the snow, (when seen at a distance), scent of balsam and pine surrounding one, the ranks of gingerbread soldiers amassing in air-tight tins, raisin-studded, crisply brown and fragrant, promising that Christmas will, indeed, return, as surely as the clock tolls twelve and the candles are extinguished only to be lit again, light piercing through darkness, needle through the dark cloth in which we were shrouded
Natal Star His natal star rises still, Eastwards, beacon-bright, burning through the fog like a hot knife through butter cut into the pudding, fruit-thick, we stirred and wished upon and herself only half-done with the Christmas shopping, moving, so, from dark into light, she loops great strands, twinkling round her wrists, her reflection tinsel-ribboned for the Christmas: baking great cakes of currants and ginger, fragrant as the first gifts to an infant child smiling upon us after Adam stumbling and spilling all those apples upon the earth and bang—go the crackers and bang—go our hearts when we realize His saving grace moving from the basement crawlspace with the boxes, back into the light, bearing gifts from their hiding places— and out of wrapping paper again, and down to the shops, and the post office, and the grocery, to pile up gifts of grace, perhaps, for Him
Angel Voices these celestial hordes, their angel voices disturb the air pearl-thick with fog obscuring distant lights, the glowing orbs strung, necklace-like, along the dip and rise of the metal spines of a distant bridge while we wrestle with rolls of paper, order hampers of food and the first snow, potently mixed with rain, lashes against the pane, window into the world beyond corners squared off by telephone lines, the demarcation of bordering hedges overhung with lights boldly emblazoning the way of that jolly old housebreaker, stolid redsuited fellow, spreading good cheer and leaving a trail of crumbs in his wake, the glasses of milk only half-drunk in his haste, best of all houseguests with his wink and his waddle, father of Christmas forgiving even the naughtiest of children (so that no one, ever, receives coal anymore) given the new benchmarks, progress reports, and projections for the next quarter, everyone given the benefit of all our doubts, ripe for self-improvement in six easy steps
Vigil so the silks and lace rustle, perfume rising, warm on this vigil night, the long lists gone over twice and twice again, the unlovely long weeks of January pushed further from the mind in favor of this candlelight and the petals of red flowers in flaming circles bordered by green, suffused in pinescent, thickribboned, again, in red and the organ resounds with familiar strains and dark is made light again, night made day and the gifts are opened with a snip of the ribbon the next morning, the carpet littered with a thickness of paper waded through like fall leaves, the scent of breakfast hanging heavy in the kitchen, the pot scalded, again, for tea
Angel Wings out of the Christmas box she comes, again wingless, her angel wings must be glued on, glued on, glued on, every year for as long as he can remember, her winsome red-painted mouth puckered into a bow, about to bestow a kiss eternally wings drying, in a safe spot, she waits for Christmas roses to bring the bloom to her cheeks again, the hothouse flowers crowded thick amongst the lilies and the hyacinth, not for them the four smooth walls of a cardboard box—no they are born to glory only to die and rejoin the earth, while she stares on, blue-eyed, golden haired, forever in an attitude of arrested flight
Lights in Winter lighting the candles we remind ourselves that the winter is but a long night and that the heat of summer, spent basking, like a lizard, in the sun, will come again and the green proliferation obscuring the blue of sky, that too, will return the miracle of light that pierces darkness, the flash of a jeweled brooch piercing a coat, glinting beneath an electric light, small suns to remind us of that largest sun breaking through the darkness to light our way
Sugared tinted granules of sugar melt and harden into pools of green and red, the colors of the spring we are promised throughout the darklong weeks of winter, the berries bloodred against the white of snow, the shining snow glared upon by the sun, the sacrificial dinner of fatslaughtered goose upon the table, while the sparrows peck outside the door, hungry for a few crumbs to drop down from this heaven of munificence, the rick-rack of apron twitches, striving always for perfection, the candy stripes echoing those embroidered upon the napkins, quick hands arranging landscapes of cottonwool and mirror flecked with iridescent specks, catching the beams from twinned candles, waxy tapers slim, red, burning bright
Bird of Dawning the bird of dawning singeth all night long and so rends her rest to pieces, shattered as the curved metallic sherds on the carpet fallen from her hands reflecting on the bells tolling twelve singing, ringing, then peace in the absence of sound needles fall silently, thick with pinescent, unlovely side pushed to the wall, garlanded gold, crowned with a single star
So Much…… so much to do that even an army of elves wouldn’t be a help, better, so, to do it on her own—who cares if it takes all night, or occasions comment on her listless eyes, raised, again, at the sight of the deliverymen, heavy-laden, striding towards her door and the hundred undone things unspooling as the spindle of ribbon loosened and tumbling down the stairs tangling, finally, in the cat’s paws, praying, sometimes, for the peace of January
A Chara, Mo Chroi and you said you would be sorry were the time to come when my letters would not longer reach your mailbox and the annual letter arrives, white as snow, ivory oblong, heavily stamped, addressed in chickenscratch, informing me that the trees, fallen to some obscure tree-disease, have been uprooted and, in their place, new ones, a fast-growing variety, planted down, black earth tamped thickly around their roots, a promise of years to come and now your voice is carried to me through the howl of wind seeking to breach the storm door as I wait, endlessly, and would I could open the door to receive you in, to jaw over old landscapes, new-painted, the honeycomb of paths, squared, we once walked, and this is my Christmas letter to you, a chara, mo chroi
Grey Pearl grey pearl of sky draws down around earth so quiet-blanketed in white footsteps are muffled and all quiet save for the occasional scrape of metal against pavement shuddering up shrubbery bearded in a temporary disguise of white, icicles hanging from the eaves a toothy grin of cold imperfect fields of green and brown now perfected white, shine back, glittering now, under the sun, eye-blinding bright
Blank Copy Books another blank copy book opens, waiting to be filled with copperplate resolutions (before we’ve lost everything but a stub of a pencil and the back of an old envelope, only slightly torn) and the rosy glow of New Year’s dinner not yet worn off and perhaps a freshclean blanket of snow mirroring your newmade soul and for at least one moment all seems possible, and, maybe, even likely
Beneath the Constellations beneath the constellations bells are ringing, bells are ringing beneath the starry skies we are singing, we are singing of that night so long ago, of those words threading through this tapestry of night, bluedark, lit by that singular star of fire, heralded by an angel choir
Tangle-Thick this tangle-thick of corded lights confound one, yet we persist, determined to light the way of others with garlands of red and green and white-hot illumination, pale cousins of those new suns perpetually being born while deliverymen come, bearing gifts, to the door and the sphinx still stares, impassive, across Egyptian sands, under the thronging stars
New Year the song resounds: another year done, another yet to begin the muddied pages of the desk diaries changed for new the scrawls of March and April as indecipherable as Sanskrit to your tired eyes, the days slipped by too fast, tied up now with ribbons and good intentions, the slipknots wound round the needles, fashioning a new garment for a new year when all shall be in abundance
Burning Daylight burning daylight with those ordinary tasks after the season has expired and all is quiet: jewel-bright ornaments, small mirrors, placed back in their boxes, egg-fragile, shimmering crimson, gold, eggplant-purple, back to the attic they go, their service done for another year, each burnished with a thick layer of memory, of that year or another, touched with tender hands, supremest care
Our Song, Now Done and now that our song is done birds throng on the boughs angels stir the air and all will be merry though the chill winds blow a fire leaps up licking the coals banishing sorrows