At Christmas, the lamps seem to beckon
us to light them, the way that, in winter,
a candle seems as strong as a thousand suns
though you can hold the candle
in the palm of your hand
and feel it quiver with even the slightest draft
of wind. Perhaps the season is about
that which cannot be blown out
a little white candle beating
inside your very heart, not just in winter’s hold
but year-round. At Christmas, even
the moon seems lit with something from within,
something you can not hold or have
or buy but fits right in to the blossom
that helps to forge your very soul.
Christmas time and Christmas rhyme:
Children’s dreams are not just about these
or about confectionaries:
They are, at heart, about winged things
like faith that alight
in the house, making aviaries
out of everything.
The tree said to the house:
“you are lucky to be adorned in lights,”
but the house sighed, saying
“you have no idea”
how trite are the man’s thoughts
who strings the lights.
“What do you know of men?” said the tree,
disgusted. “What do you know of lights,” replied the house.
“Everything,” said the tree, pointing out
the birds that make their homes
in the branches and pine boughs the man
sometimes cuts and brings in at Christmastime.
“Oh hope,” said the house, “I know less about it,”
which made the man’s fuse box plain short out.
At Christmas, hope and love make patterns
which, invisibly, alight into our hearts
the way that birds, flying all of a sudden,
often vault into a formation
that is structured and seems timed
but is still completely free.
Watching them they seem at play the way
that my heart, anticipating Christmas, feels today.
Christmas: One small word
that contains plainsong
and candlelight and yet,