So close, just beyond this busy corner.

Has to be here somewhere.

I see the rushed paces, flushed faces;

Blank stares and unawares.

Happens every year, the fight to hear…

The little drummer boy, Angels on high,

My mother’s tired sigh.

Christmas past pasted

Like cards around doorways.

New pajamas, mistletoe,

And a ceramic manger made

By my godmother.  

Call me sentimental,

But the collective memories

Settle on the tree, tinsel-like,

Scattered, glimmering.

Does anyone use tinsel anymore?

I’m older now, as you gather.

I’ve got enough history

To fill a stocking anyway.

Midnight Mass, candles all around

The silent night of dreaming

Of peace and place and a Person.

All shall be merry,

And all manner of Christmas shall be merry.

“I Am the Light of the world.” Jesus