Winter Solstice 2018

The Winter Solstice arrived

independent of the weather this year,

this pagan celebration of renewal

which we Christians stole

for our own purposes; perhaps,

though, it’s a shared purpose,

a celebration of light returning,

the light of our own spirits,

one world, one people, shining

in all manifestations of glory,

renewed from the darkness of our own lives

to begin again, as we all must do.

Christmas Narrative 2018

A couple weeks before Christmas and it’s back to the mall, one more trip for those last minute gifts, things we forgot, or for those we weren’t giving to this year, except they sent something to us first, so we feel obligated; or maybe it’s one for Dad, as I haven’t seen anything under the tree bearing my name yet. Personally, I haven’t started my shopping, too soon, too early, plenty of time, I’m not even sure what to get. I know what they want, but I never buy that, not me. Though I have given them my list, because they asked for it. But today, I’m the driver, the load master, the carrier of bags and boxes and nothing more, just wandering the mall looking for Christmas.

The Christmas carols rang out to my ears, some local middle schoolers singers, but I really didn’t hear their songs, just aware of them in the background, these untrained voices straining as I jostle with the Christmas crowd, all those bedraggled parents with children in tow, looking for Santa and toys to be added to their ever growing list for him, or teens tuned out to the crowds, pushing through, their own carols blaring through ear buds dangling from their ears, connecting them to yet another tuned out teen, leashed perhaps, and afraid, safety in numbers; I can’t make out their loud muffled stuff, which is ok. I wouldn’t understand it anyhow. Perhaps they’re even shutting out Christmas; it’s just time off from school with little to do and gifts they don’t need, maybe don’t really want, luxury gifts for the short term in the changing trends of adolescence, soon to become passé, obsolete, gathering dust to be moved to the back of the closet or on to Goodwill, things they’ll never use again past the beginning of the new year, the start of school in January.

Yet, there he is, Santa, the Clause himself, all in red and white and perched atop a velvet throne, a line snaking around him, a child on his knee and nervous parents snapping pictures with their cellphones, Christmas digitally easy and convenient. He looks fairly well, despite his age, for surely this is the same Santa of my youth by his appearance, a right jollly old elf. I doubt he’d remember me, though, much taller now, and heavier, sporting the shadow of a beard myself, balder than when I last sat on his lap, years ago, my list clutched tightly in my grubby hands so’s not to forget anything, my memory weak even then, as it is now. But I wonder, seeing him, if he really is that same Santa, barely aged; does he hold the secret to youth, bathes in its fountain, or does he maybe have a son destined to replace him, preparing for the only career option presented to him, this the son of my Santa, perpetuating the line for years to come – oh, to be the second born and free to leave the North Pole and the world of toy making elves, their constant pounding and chatter, the smell of reindeer, the jingling of bells. Or perhaps this is a more modern Santa doing his part to increase productivity and profits, contributing his share to the American economy, yet taking the newly given tax break and using the loopholes of the wealthy to increase his own coffers, minimum wage, if that, for the elves whose only trade is toy making, like their fathers before, laid off and struggling on welfare, their Medicaid and retirement lost, or, Christmas a lucrative business, does he, too, outsource now, import via the internet from the big box stores or use trade agreements with overseas markets, cheaply made goods by workers cheaply paid. There are no letters sent to Santa anymore, carefully written letters in the scrawling penmanship of children, lovingly sent, now just emailed lists and messages posted: “Dear Santa, I know it’s my parents who buy this stuff, but here’s what I really want, if you’ll pass this on to them … please note the correct colors and sizes, get it right this year, ok?”

So much I’d like to ask him, this new Santa competing in our industrial nation, our consumer nation built on profits – are the stories I vaguely remember true, the flying reindeer and delivering toys around the world in a single night, and how does he fit down that chimney with his stature? Or are these just the gimmicks of Christmas, sales promotions to get me to buy, buy, buy, to ask for what I want, not necessarily need, demanding it with temper tantrums and pouting, Christmas more about getting and less about the giving, the spirit of Christmas seemingly gone from our modern world. I want to ask him about that, that spirit of Christmas, even as I search for it here at the mall, this December day, packed in as we are, looking for bargains and finding none among the Christmas trees and tinsel, colored lights and holiday decor.

So I stepped into the line to await my time to visit him, perhaps even sit on his lap, though probably just stand, kneel next to his velvet chair, for he looks smaller than I remember him, and the children might think me odd, a grown man on Santa’s lap, odd enough waiting in this line without a child I might be escorting. But I have a few questions for him that need answers, waiting here as I am, unfazed, among the small children in tears, clutching a parent’s hand, afraid, or eagerly waiting, beaming, primped for a picture, believing, as I had, we all had, still want to believe, it is the real Santa, an eternal Santa from the North Pole, filling our stockings, leaving behind wrapped packages, bowed and tagged for us, carefully laid beneath our tree; even drinking the milk, eating the cookies we left for him, the sugar for reindeer, some treats to carry them around the world and safely home to Mrs. Clause.

I feel no shame standing here in line, hear the snickering around me, feel the pointing, the wondering what I’m doing here, even my own wondering if my anticipation shows as we inch toward Santa, our lists clutched in our grubby hands, or in the recesses of our minds opened up now, remembering the sled that I wanted, electric trains and building sets, games and puzzles and books, eagerly waiting for Christmas, being good, assured of which list my name was written on, the good list, for hadn’t I been exceptionally good, helping around the house, tolerating the little sister, promising better behavior in the coming year, knowing I probably wouldn’t behave any better, but promises count for something, don’t they, with Santa? Even now, I’m patient and good, not rude, disrespectful like these other children here, shoving and pushing and trying my patience, resisting the urge to push back and finding my name quickly transferred to the naughty list, a lump of coal for my stocking come Christmas morning. And what, if I dared, would I ask him to bring me, to leave under my Christmas tree, wrapped and bowed and tagged with my name?

“Sir?” a quizzical non-elf dressed in green and pointed shoes timidly asks, wondering where my child might be hiding, my child who’s out spending my money, promising to pay me back. “Um, you’re next?”

So, my turn, I move forward toward Saint Nick, tentative, and see 50-plus years dissolve in his presence, his magic, the magic of Santa, the magic of Christmas, making me a kid again. My doubts melt away, for here he is, Santa, sitting here in red and white, his eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry, his cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry. He had a broad face and a little round belly, that shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly. Yes, here it all is again as it always was, sitting on the lap of the department store Santa, believing in the unbelievable, childlike wonder and belief, the whys of Christmas, the hows of Santa not important, for this was the Spirit of Christmas returned to me here at the mall this cold December day waiting for Santa. I asked him no questions for I now needed no answers: a wink of his eye and a twist of his head soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. “Thank you, thank you, Santa.”

I shook his hand, what else could I do, and walked away, light-hearted, smiling, chuckling to myself and clutching, it seems, the candy cane he gave me, gave to all the good little children. And I heard him exclaim as I walked out of sight, Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

The Christmas List

A friend asked me what I wanted for Christmas, “anything special you want,” and as always, “no,” I replied, “nothing particular, nothing I can think of.” Actually, I really don’t like the Christmas List, that annual list my wife and family ask for about this time of year, if not earlier, usually before Thanksgiving. I suppose I could wax philosophical, poetic even, about wanting world peace or some abstract, undeliverable, unwrappable gift of vacations or large sums of money or time or things, material things I’m not sure I really “want,” but maybe merely dream of, fantasize about. So please, everyone, don’t ask; I really don’t know what I want.

Of course, there are those who persists, my wife for one, those who need a list, need options, need things to choose from, things to be able to go directly to in Walmart, K-Mart, Target even, other choices available if option #1 is sold out, not on the shelf, or on backorder until after Christmas. A list with the appropriate website, free shipping if possible, and an online sale, is even better. So for them, if I must, to get them off my back, get them to stop asking, stop bugging me about a Christmas list, I grudgingly put together a list, a list of things I might want, might appreciate getting, but things I probably wouldn’t buy for myself, things not that important that I have them, my life no worse off for not having it, like the complete collection of The Muppet Show, Seasons 1, 2, and 3, or The Prisoner, that 60s cult classic TV show, or maybe some book I’ve thought about buying, but not high on my list of books to read before I die, like another copy of Don Quixote or some new version of King Arthur, books more to have on my shelf than to read, but how many version of King Arthur unread does one person need on his bookcase? And then there’s Mickey Mouse memorabilia, stuffed or pinned or pictured, no reason to have it except to add it to the already probably too large collection of Mickey Mouse stuff laying around my desk and book shelves collecting dust, taking up space, not even as collectors’ items as some kind of investment for the future - I just like Mickey Mouse.

Without a list, how is anyone supposed to shop for me, to put a meaningful gift under the tree, prettily wrapped and bowed to be torn open, paper asunder, on Christmas Day? How will they know what to get me, know what I want; what are they to do? OK, then, here is my list, a short one, flexible enough so everyone I give it to can safely find something someone else will not pick, for my list is but one thing of which there are many options, options for the wealthy who would lavish me with expensive trinkets reflecting their own wealth, and options for the destitute reduced to homemade gifts from the scraps of their lives available to them, and options for everyone in between, wherever you see yourself fitting. The option is even there to get me nothing if that is what you choose, and I’ll harbor no ill-will toward anyone for that; your friendship will suffice. The one item on my list? Buy me, make for me, get me whatever you wish to give me, whatever is meaningful for you based on who I am to you, how you know me. It will be meaningful, trust me, for the meaningfulness is not in what I want, but in what you want for me to express your love, to share your feelings, to signify our relationship, for that is the meaning of Christmas, the spirit of giving, the spirit of Santa Claus.

And be assured, you who have given me your list, I have it; long or short, I have it, have read it and considered it, but probably wrapped in Christmas paper tied with a bow under the tree will not be anything on your list, for that is not what I want to give you. If you want something on your list, truly want it enough to put it on your list, go buy it for yourself to be sure you get it, for I will give you myself and the gift that best says, “I love you, Merry Christmas.”

This Place We Live

Been cold these last few days

here in New England, this northern clime,

and overcast, blue sky rare

and rarer still the sun;

nothing new to us who choose

this place to live, call it home,

adjusting our lives to the changes coming,

layers of clothing and woolen sweaters,

more wood in the stove, now lit and fueled,

heat radiating, warming us, comforting, homey;

this we must do, moving forward,

facing the days ahead, winter days,

readying ourselves for the cold and the snow

and the darkness, and awaiting spring’s renewal,

renewed ourselves, stronger and heartier,

a hardy people because we’ve weathered the cold,

weathered New England’s northern clime,

this place we live, this place we call home.

The Tooth Fairy

The tooth fairy lives on the fringes

of doubt when you’re six years old

and growing up too fast, lives there

with fairy tale princesses and Santa Claus,

hiding in dreams even as he exchanges

teeth for quarters under a pillow

held down by a drowsy head, nodding;

“He does, too,” she says,

“I saw him there, once,”

trying to sound convincing, confident,

and fighting the sleep that keeps him alive.

That first snow always catches me off guard

That first snow always catches me off guard,

despite the watches and warnings and predictions

of 1 to 3 to 4 to 6 inches of snow coming in;

I’m just not ready for it, not yet, not now,

not ready for the snow and cold of winter arriving.

Waking up to it, I groan, but the shoveling

must be done, the snow moved off the walk

and away from the doorways and cars, got to get out;

besides, no one else is going to do it, my appointed job,

me having the better back for lifting and tossing,

though I’d much rather not, too tired, or busy, or old, perhaps.

But once outside, dressed warm against the elements,

before my shovel even hits the ground, lifts that first scoop,

the world turns quiet around me with the silent fall of snow,

and if I listen closely, I can hear soft whispers,

snow crystals, barely heard, dancing on the breeze.

I am easily distracted by the glitter of snowflakes

glistening in the first light of the sun’s new rising,

and by the soft outlines on my snow-covered yard,

its imperfections perfectly hidden, smoothed over;

propped against my shovel, admiring this, I am reminded,

that first snow always catches me off guard.

An Old Friend Returns

On a dark night, late in the fall,

starlit Autumn waning now into winter,

I wandered to the water’s edge and the expanse

of stars reflected there, not that I could

name any of them or the constellations they form,

not even the Dippers, Big and Small, the first

we are taught to recognize, but I never learned

them, too busy in youth looking up in wonder,

rapt in the sheer number and grandeur dwarfing me.

Even now, in the autumn of my own life, I feel small

looking up, still in wonder, rapt and searching,

‘till I find that one constellation I know well,

gone those summer months to the southern hemisphere,

returning now, Orion returning, looming large this night,

his three-starred belt and hunter’s bow released,

his raised arm reaching up in victory, a conqueror returning,

this long-time friend, old friend reminding me,

like a Celtic Knot, that the end of the journey

is coming home, as he is now, home to guide me

through the coming winter of ice and snow and cold,

beginning again our long journeys, away and homeward,

a threshold crossed, ending in return.

Science

Never really liked science, couldn’t do well in it;

I guess I never really cared about the why of things,

what made them happen, what forces at work created

whatever it was that science was trying to prove.

Like seeds, putting the bean in a glass, sandwiched

between the glass and some soil, watering it,

watching a root sprout out and grow down into the soil,

little feathery tendrils trailing and a stem

rising upward to escape perhaps its own confinement,

life there tightly held, waiting to grow, like all of us.

Still can’t explain the seed, can’t remember things

like osmosis, mitosis, photosynthesis, those cells dividing

and merging into whatever it is they are supposed to become.

I’d watch my seed every day on the window ledge next to my desk,

marvel at it, measure its growth rapidly struggling

through the soil, pushing it aside, a curved route down

and a curved route up, - did it know where it was going? -

no straight lines in nature’s quest to survive, mine either. 

After the test I barely passed, we let it die on the window

ledge, too much light, too little water, the experiment over,

and we never talked about its passing, or what happens next;

where do dead plants go? Is there a heaven or hell for them?

I do remember the D that I got in chemistry and the rash

of excuses I made to explain it, the teacher, the class,

material too complicated for my high school brain,

and now at 64 I still don’t know science, still don’t care,

make no excuses, but my garden grows in the summer and dies

in autumn, to grow again in spring; the rains fall,

the sun shines, and the roots go down, the stems go up,

unconfined, pushing through the soil, nature surviving.

And us? The science of us, the why and the forces at work?

We all must die, like my garden, my little plant,

too much light, too little water, the experiment over,

and what comes next, death, is just a mystery to us,

a big unknown, all the theories and suppositions proclaimed

that science can’t prove, can’t explain, heaven

or hell or ashes to ashes, dust to dust, Thanatopsis,

and the poet’s command to live, “that when thy summons comes ...

sustained and soothed ... approach they grave

Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch

About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams¹.”

¹ – Thanatopsis – William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878)

My Father's Hands

My father’s hands bore the marks of his vocation,

cracked and creased, dark from years of grease and oil,

hard hands and a soft touch that worked the engines

and machines of other men’s livelihood, uncomplaining

through the late hours and early mornings, time

away from family, away from home, away from us;

and his soul, too, a gentle soul, bore these same marks,

uncomplaining, hard work and family, respect and honesty, 

temperance and fidelity and kindness, a patient man,

always faithful, full of faith, full of love.

The Circus

After the circus was gone,

we were left with an empty lot littered

with cotton candy cones and popcorn

boxes, crackers jacks, and posters

torn from poles and pasted by the wind

against the fence at the far corner of the field.

The grass is trampled down and muddied by three days

of footfalls traversing the Midway toward the Big Top,

small groups congregating around the barkers

luring us in with slim chances to win or to prove

our strength and skill, games of chance or fancy,

or enticed by the smell of carney food,

greasy fries and a hotdog laden down

with fried onions and mustard, visible clearly

in the stains down our chins and shirts.

And the Big Top, pole-held, three ringed, beckoned

us further into the circus world professed

by the posters as “daring sights and feats of acrobatics

to amaze and amuse,” funneling us in through peanuts,

popcorn, and candy apples thrust out and taken

for a small fee, circus fare on this Sunday afternoon.

Inside, our ringside seats secured, the circus music

assailed us, loud and shrill, brassy and fast,

climbing the scales and trills higher than the tent

top above us, up above the trapeze and the tight rope

that drew our gaze upward, awaiting feats proclaimed

“death defying.” Then a whistle sounded, a shiny whistle

poised between the lips of the Ringmaster, piercing

the air into silence, to direct our attention to here

and there, to now, three rings of clowns cavorting

and prancing horses, dancing dogs, and the elephants,

four elephants on command standing on two legs,

or following the leader, trunks grasping tails,

or front feet up on an elephant rump, so large and awkward

in this ballet of elephant dance, pirouettes and turns;

to the center ring where a cage had emerged unseen

and on cue, eight, count ‘em, eight, tigers

and a lion, sleek and snarling, fierce, and we gasped,

grasped each other, except the brave ones, roaring back,

hiding their own fears, afraid like us, afraid to show it.

With a snap of his whip, the lion tamer enters the ring,

this brave man with his lovely assistant aglitter

in pink sequins, sparkling, a distraction perhaps,

as he put them through their leaps, fiery hoops,

and rolls, his head stuck in a tiger’s mouth and sending

them off with a snap, again, a sharp crack of his whip.

Then a spot light circled the circus tent in darkness, swirling

upward as a snare drum rolled from somewhere, concealed,

and with a cymbal’s crash, a trapeze artist leapt out,

caught in the light’s bright hold, a-dazzle, dazzling us.

She lets go the bar, somersaults in midair with no net

to catch her, but from the dark appear outstretched

arms to reach hers reaching back, safely conveying her

to the other side of the tent, another bar awaiting

to carry her home, a tuck and a roll and a grasp of the bar

to the delight – and perhaps relief – of the crowd,

cheering from the bleachers below.

                                                               And at the end of day,

safely tucked in bed ourselves, sated by peanuts,

popcorn, and greasy fries, we dreamt of the circus

and a life we could have as roustabouts and barkers,

trapeze artists high above the crowd, or perhaps our own

glittering suit as the Ringmaster, a shiny whistle

poised between our lips, piercing the air into silence.

But in the morning, the circus is gone, and we are left

with an empty lot littered with cotton candy cones and popcorn

boxes, posters pasted by the wind against the fence

at the far corner, where once there was a tent

big enough to fuel a young boy’s dreams,

dreams of a life he lived for this one afternoon,

a Sunday afternoon when the circus came to town.

Watch a Leaf Falling

Watch a leaf fall,

any leaf, any shape or color,

it doesn’t matter,

so many to choose from;

it might flutter, wobble

side to side, slowly adrift

as it floats, free and alone;

or drop like a rock

let loose from your palm,

straight down, a silent crash;

or turn itself sideways,

sailing across the yard,

an uncontrolled kite,

caught in a breeze.

Under A Dark Sky

Alone, under a dark sky, star lit, the sounds
of night echo around me, surround me,
the eerie hoot! hoo of an owl close by
and the mournful cry of the loon, calling out,
the unseen rustle of nature settling in,
flora and fauna, earth and wind and water.

It’s easy now to believe in peace on earth,
and thus comforted, easier still to sleep
the night through, quilted, secure and warm.

Shadows

In winter, in the cold and snow,

the shadows sneak along the snow banks,

opposite to the sun, as if seeking shelter

in fear, detected thus, of their own demise,

the loss of their unformed grayness

dark against the white of winter’s snow;

or the sun streaming in my windows, shadows

drifting along the far wall, illuminated,

until they disappear, absorbed, are taken in,

shadows returned to light.

Laundry

She likes clean laundry,

so twice a week, thrice even,

she empties the hamper, sorts by whites

and lights and colors and spends

the better part of the day

washing and hanging and folding

and sorting into hers and mine

and whoever else’s clothes appeared unwashed

and in need of cleaning, children’s and grandchildren’s

and house guests’, or any other unclaimed clothes appearing.

Winters here stymie her as the hanging,

her preference, is substituted by the dry heat

of tumbled clothes, round and round and clunking,

which she tolerates because she must, the clotheslines

removed before the skies turn to snow the yard

draped with ropes, haphazardly strung between trees

and barn and telephone poles, too cold and deep

to trudge out and clip wet clothes with frozen fingers.

She sighs at the option, not the cold or snow,

but the missing scent of wind and sunshine, summer

laundry’s residue left in drying, fresher still

than tumbled heat masked with Bounce or Downy,

weak substitutes for freshness, just not the same.

This year, fast approaching the closing of the camp

and the taking down of lines, she claims an early victory,

adding one more step to the close-up checklist:

stringing lines for hanging clothes on the front porch.

It’s unheated, but it faces the lake and is lined with windows

and the southern sun, relatively warm on a winter’s day,

warm enough to trap the sunshine, enough to dry clothes

hung there, freezing and thawing even as they dry

over time, more time, to be carried back to the house

across the yard, laid out for final thawing and warming,

then folded to trap the smell and feel of clothes

more loosely hung in summer sunshine, spring and fall.

Me? The dryer is fine, clothes warm to the touch

and soft, Bounced or Downy’d, an acceptable substitute.

But I don’t do the laundry; it’s her self-chosen job

exchanged for cleaning the bathroom, my job, done less often.

It’s a fair trade, so I’ll do my part and pick up

my clothes and put them in the hamper, even string now

the lines from east to west on the porch for winter

sunshine, completing this newly added step. I’ll carry

a basket of wet clothes across the yard, dressed

against the cold in a heavy coat and hat and mittens,

winter boots.  Perhaps it’s some husbandly duty,

“all other duties as assigned,” or perhaps it’s to avoid

the alternative, not heat tumbled clothes, but a new step

added to my own checklist, washing my own clothes,

which I can do, and have done, out of necessity,

but I never liked doing it, would prefer not to do,

why I married her, I joke, so when the question

is asked, “do you think we could ... ?”,

a rhetorical question, no answer is required.

Autumn's Month, October

September rolls to an end,

gaining momentum as the days fly by,

the days shortening and the nights made longer.

Cold evening breezes shake the trees outside my window;

the oak and maple leaves hold tight to each other

and cry out in dry voices, rattling, keeping me awake

as I lie here, warm under a quilt, newly added

in the dropping temperatures of nighttime falling,

shutting off the warmth of daylight, September hastening

down toward slow October, Autumn’s month, a time to remember: 
clear dark skies and morning chills, frost covering the grass,

and the scrapings of cast off leaves rattling across the lawn

to gather along the fence, a time of gathering up,

setting aside for the winter months ahead.

And listening to September rolling to an end

while Autumn’s month sneaks slowly in, gathering up,

I think of the years passing, other autumns, long ago,

and a hazy smoke rising gray against the waning green

of summer turning orange and rust and red and brown,

a hazy smoke lingering acrid, drifting upward  

from burning leaves, smoldering piles watched carefully

by old men propped up, leaning themselves on old rakes,

watching and remembering, too, drifting off perhaps

with the smoke, hazy and acrid in their recollections,

a gray smoke smoldering the memories of September

rolling to an end, shortened days and nights made longer,

the dry leaves calling to remind me, keeping me awake,

as September rolls to an end into Autumn’s month, October.

A Scent of Autumn

Besides the pumpkin spice that pervades this change

of seasons, the leaves are starting to turn;

the greens of summer dull to yellow and brown

and fall, ones and twos letting go from the trees

to announce themselves where they lie stark

against the grass wet now by the morning’s dew,

a cooler night manifesting itself. And rising late

with the sun, reluctant to leave the warmth of my bed,

I pile yesterday’s news and kindling, logs that burn easily, 

into the stove, and set them ablaze, breathing deep

the acrid smell of smoke carried aloft,

up the chimney and away, a gray cloud billowing.

This is an autumn scent here in the woods where I live

and the bitter essence of the season changing,

summer into fall, and with it, ourselves, turning inward,

remembering our own seasons, where we are, and why.

All the Poetry you'll ever Need

If you can capture the way things are, that’s all the poetry you’ll ever need (Natalie Goldberg), all the poetry that is necessary to sustain us, capturing life the way it truly is meant to be lived and holding it close to us. For what could be more beautiful than to look beyond the dross of life, beyond the covers we place over our lives so as not to spoil ourselves, stripping all that away and discovering what we’ve hidden there, or perhaps feared to see, and seeing it now in its simplicity, hearing its voice in verse, and feeling its blood coursing through us, finding the beauty of being alive and knowing that beauty is us.

Wine tastes best alone

Wine tastes best alone

      on a quiet evening, remembering;

            warmed by the rays of a setting sun,

                  the sounds of dusk turning to night

                        resonate in a rich, red bouquet.

Carousel Princess - For Kaycee

The horses prance lightly on a carousel track,

frozen and still, forever prancing around and around.

Their painted saddles and bridles gleam and come alive

with carousel light and a calliope of music.

And riding a brass pole, up and down and up again,

they convey the children into a world of imagination,

a world of their own creation, their laughter and glee

ringing the air, their tiny hands clutching tightly

that brass pole for safety, surety, as they race

the circle of the carousel, reaching out for a brass ring

to claim their prize, proclaim themselves as victors.

But she’s content to ride the sleigh, curved and carved,

a regal coach pulled behind carousel horses prancing,

this private carriage no fairy godmother appearing

can conjure up from pumpkin and mice;

she smiles and waves with each revolution,

satisfied to be carried magically toward a castle,

a royal ball, a Prince Charming of her own, lost

in her own Princess world, unconcerned by the other children;

and the rest of the world sleeps, looking on,

awaiting love’s first kiss, the stroke of midnight’s

clock, and the spell of childhood to be broken.