Arts + Scene » Poetry




The twig of holly does not mind, pays no heed
To the wind swirling 'round, wood scratching
Resting sure, through thousands of years
The yule log brought cold as death
Into the hall, waiting to be reborn as light and

Ash, swirling into smoky air
Winter, immortality burning like
An evergreen seen and smelling like rosemary
These do not look to a martyr or a mother figure

Like approbation, even the mother
Of the gentle tableau (baby-daddy absent)
Stars, shepherds, magicians, take their turns
(This gig of babysitting gone as cold
As the referential stars)

Still, so lovely, this idea of a child
A child, come to be the one, the one
We love the most, our perfect ideal
The best that we can become

Clear-headed kindness comes natural
To those who choose reason
And love, becomes the antithesis to
Superstition, coercion, and fear
'Tis truly the reason for the season

This blessed time of year

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