I can count
on it like clockwork:
He arrives late, on
Christmas eve,
His presence building,
Some ineffable, magic
pattern
Tessellating the air.
Alone by the tree, lights
twinkling,
Balsam scents swirling,
I hear a tinkling of
bells,
Crisp snowflakes falling
Like rice dropped on
paper,
When some low voice
Rises out of the dark and
silence,
The lights flicker, brighten,
The lights flicker, brighten,
Then a shadow moves
In the corner of the eye,
A bumbling benevolence glimpsed.
I catch it, despite
Commerce’s ugly rattle,
Replaced by all that
endures,
Merciful and hopeful:
A sudden, sharp recognition
Of what is right in each
of us.
And he comes, big-bearded
white knight,
White light, this night,
Bounding clumsily into
my heart.
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