In the Wake of Christmas
A found poem considering the ghosts of Christmases past

In time gone, when the big house filled With children and food and the breath of relatives Marking together the sparkling zenith of Days and weeks set apart
All for the purpose of coiling a sense Of urgency, of expectation, Limned with brightness glowing or garish, The annual yearning toward magic
And belief that it could be. So much to Be done, I would start months ahead Hoping to manage the spiraling build Toward that one day
Gifts purchased and hidden, cards Addressed and stamped, dates held In reserve for parties and visits, school programs, The ritual drive to witness the lights
Displayed to render sacred the ordinary. The stakes were once so high And inescapable, insistent music everywhere A goad toward action
All effort mounting to the singularity That swept each of us into our ordained spaces, Hosts or guests, keepers of the feast, Children with fevered eyes whirling in the midst.
Years remake us, advancing us to the spaces Once taken by those we lose. Sons grown To manhood, parents and lovers vanishing behind Us, ourselves continually surprised
At what we’re becoming. Meanwhile, things Calm down. We are satisfied with tokens, quiet days, And the memory of breathless uproar, noting How so much becomes simpler as mystery approaches.






