There’s
caroling all through the house. The birds are chirping, singing of joy.
We
know for others, the tints of love, to feather an earlobe. The tree is
evergreen,
filled with ornaments, for a season of promise. The poodle is
silent,
attempting to see color, eager to go to Petco. With such abandon,
wrapping
paper is torn asunder. We think of eggnog; we set the turkey; and
watch
as smiles paint heaven. It’s a mystical wealth, a touch of fairytale,
as
tangible as a poodle’s kiss. There’s something different, a vocal glow, to
promise
something mythic; in which are walnut pies, and pecan Fridays,
where
children run wildly. Parents swoon gently; to receive such warmth,
to
see such bliss. The house is jubilant; to sprinkle tears, as fervent as
furnaces.
Its sheer amazement, to break a candy cane, to hug a sister; and
boys
wrestle, to trade for gifts, a suited negotiator. Breakfast is quite vast:
biscuits
and bacon and sausage and eggs and jam and jelly and stars upon
trees.
Mother—with a halo, dances to hymns and homilies. Father—with a
halo,
chases for sport. There’s for hugs and kisses and tugs and wishes—to
live
it like a Sunday. There’s for faith and prayers and grace and love; for
moments
become immortal; in which for consciousness—the psalms of
David;
to know for others, and know for self, a need for silence!
