White Christmas

Here,

we expect a white Christmas,

with its varying shades of white

and frosted blues and even the ashen shade

of snow heaped high, frozen and tinged with dust

thrown by the wind, dirty with sand

let fly for traction, for gripping the ice,

lest we slip and fall and break, this snow

piled up by plows and snowblowers

or the back-breaking task of shoveling,

cleaning up from last night’s storm

blowing in while we slept, predicted,

yet we doubted that it would really arrive,

- oh, ye of little faith - maybe hoping

it wouldn’t come, unprepared as we are.

But we still expect a white Christmas,

just like the ones we used to know,

one carried in by a cold wind, the treetops

glistening, children listening, and all that.

Growing up and eager with the excitement

of Santa’s sleigh and the reindeer, we

always had a white Christmas, though

whether we realy did or not we can’t prove,

nor care to; we remember it that way - it’s always

been that way - and global warming or not, climate

changes to boot, we expect the snow to fall

despite what the scientists tell us and remain

on the ground throughout the holiday, fa la la la la!

And now, the twelve days behind us, the tree

drooping and out of place, the festivities

over and gone, the toys put away and the task

of post-Christmas ahead, we begin counting the days

till spring, mud-season even, looking ahead for longer

days between sun up and sun down, more light in between

and higher temperatures warming us against the cold,

the green of our lives returning, for we have had

our snow-white Christmas, what we expected,

and that was enough for this year,

here.

A Christmas Poem, 2019

‘Twas the night before Christmas,

and all through the house, the story goes

that I read to my grandchildren at bedtime

this Christmas Eve, a proper story,

not a creature was stirring,

not even a mouse, though it wasn’t true,

as I’d seen one scurry across the room

and under the Christmas tree just

after dinner as we gathered for one present,

our Christmas Eve tradition, one gift

from grandparents, one gift to carry off to bed,

visions of sugarplums no longer dancing

in their heads, nothing to stave off

the excitement of Christmas Eve keeping them awake,

an eagerness we all felt, even the adults among us,

waiting for them to sleep and fulfill our role

as Santa, last minute gifts to wrap, toys to assemble,

packages taken from where we'd hid them and placed

under the tree, cookies to eat and milk to drink,

to finish off the ruse of Santa’s visit,

right down to the sleigh bells ringing

as from the roof signaling his arrival.

And the mouse, no one else saw him, stirred again

in the silence of the room as I sat there

finishing the cookies and milk, and a glass of wine,

Santa that I was, alone now as the others

climbed the stairs to their beds to settle

themselves down for a long winter’s nap,

their soft footfalls above my head,

eager for Santa’s appearance at our home,

dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot.

His tiny gray face poking out

from among the packages stared at me,

wondering himself this holy night, eager, too,

and waiting, his tiny black nose twitching,

some form of rodent communication, communing.

Hey, I said softly so’s not to break the silence

of the room, not to be heard by those asleep,

not a creature was stirring, not even you,

my little mouse friend; what keeps you up

this Christmas Eve, up and about

here among the wrapping paper and satin

bows below these twinkling lights? 

In answer, he scurried from his hiding place

to the little table, where stood a milk-filmed

glass and a plate of cookie crumbs, nibbling, now,

I noticed, the crumbs I’d dropped, perhaps

intentionally, to share with him this Christmas Eve

stirring, stirring myself, sleep not easily

coming on this holiday night, the expectation

of the morrow too great to sleep,

the packages torn asunder, the stockings,

once hung by the chimney with care, dumped

onto the floor and rifled through,

and the goose even, stuffed and cooked,

awaiting the carving knife and the company

of potatoes, white and sweet, whipped,

and steamed and boiled peas and beans

and squash, those little onions my mother liked,

and the hot rolls with honey butter melting,

dripping; our appetites sated, our bellies full,

the pies and cakes and cookies would be saved

for later’s coffee, the day winding down,

a meal begun with our hands joined and our heads

bowed in prayer, a blessing for the day

and for the season, for the Christ-child born,

for the peace of this evening now, a stirring mouse

and I, our own anticipation of families joined

around the Christmas tree and the holiday traditions,

another year behind, another year ahead.

So I raised my glass to him, the last gulp of wine

quaffed, and he finishing the last of the crumbs

I’d dropped, to us, my wee friend stirring, 

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

She Looked in the Mirror

She looked in the mirror and saw nothing

but that same vague, shadowed outline

of a child, far away and veiled, barely perceptible,

an image reflected, as always, staring back

from a distance, some distant place she could

not go, wanting to climb inside the mirror and be safe.

Beating on the glass with naked palms, she shouted

her own name, over and over, “my own fucking

name,” pounding until the glass cracked, smashed, lines

racing out, three jagged lines crisscrossing, cutting herself,

painless after years of scars, sliced to convince

herself she could feel, feel pain, feel anything.

And the face smiled back, recognizing something there,

but the lonely smile quickly turned to tears, seeing

perhaps itself now in its own mirror, barely perceptible,

distant, what she would become, had become;

and she, shouting out her name, saw herself now in that

smiling, tearful face behind the cracked glass reflecting

the young girl she had once been, wanted to be once more.

Legend

The spirits of winter haunting have let loose

themselves today in the winds that blow

and swirl among the trees, driving the snows

before them, these ethereal shells

of weary travels calling out, shrieking, lost once

in a storm such as this, ill-prepared and found

hunched and frozen or denuded in the spring thaw,

stripped bare to bone. These same spirits return

again now to take up their winter journeys,

howling through the trees and the snow,

their tears falling hard and icy, homeward bound

to the warm fires and family they left behind,

a comfort at the end of their days denied them.