The Christmas poem tradition continues, with the sixth annual posting of a compact memoir about my childhood Christmases, and a wish for a constant remembrance of what makes tough times good.
In Christmas past, I used to wait
wide-eyed in the dark,
willing daylight to arrive–
or the first chimes of midnight–
but always, always, I fell asleep,
and did not hear the whispered consult
or see the huddled adults
conjure piles of wrapped treasure
beneath a tinseled tree.
Then came the years the gifts were few–
maybe only one–
but popcorn, cocoa, carols,
reading in the Book of Luke,
warmed the coldest winter holiday,
reminding us by frail candlelight
that even the brightest star
blooms suspended in chill space,
unseen without the dark.
c2007, Keanan Brand