Mystical rivers of Christmas narrative carry us not down,
Eternally, we sail upward through into and beyond Christmas charm:
Real things are metaphors boiled into the concrete and turned into services and songs,
Reflections like the Christmas lights on the ground mirroring the stars
Years we realize are never missing and never lost
Causes and personal crusades are never wasted time.
His becomes Ours when we find a way to show we care.
Risen becomes rose, risen, and rising when we add our plainsong and our flair.
Is it a sin to express love at the highest level, to let it carry us out of the mundane?
To what shore, we often ask, and yet on that shore we reside
Most often when we gather, honor, and celebrate
As often as possible, not just on Christmas Eve but through December’s days and nights
Sunrises, real things, honoring: this is how we learn to truly live.
Christmas is to the year as a rose is to the garden: suddenly in full bloom.
Christmas is to my heart as a space devoid of weeds: everything simply sings.
Christmas is what our lives are meant to be about: service and plainsong
measured out and doled out in candlelight and sacred winds
Christmas is a way to get beyond the mundane routine that time brings
to pull back, to rest and to joy, to turn the small illusion of life all the way around
And let it spin.
In dead winter, finding none, the rose said to the moon
I’ve forgotten how to live.
The moon, not knowing how to respond, said,
“it’s none of my business,”
making the rose cry. Neither knew the answer
to the question:
How am I to live?
They tried to spell it out: through moon-song
or moon-light or sunshine since the rose, lacking none of the latter,
was born to be brought into bloom and then die
back each year only to be reborn in spring
but these did not suffice.
Then it occurred to the rose:
the answer could be found in the plainsong
lived out millennia ago,