Again, for Christmas day.
What is Christmas now
but the folly of money?
The take take take
And give give give
of things things things
you’ll never need
another day –
may not even see another year.
For we know our childish forgetfulness,
and this time is for the child in us.
Even the tree fails to gloat
with those baubles now, those stars
and angels glittering. To me,
it’s just a tree with a curious
silver decor, which,
I am far too aware, is deliberate artifice.
But we were filled with wonder once
which bound us by silver tinsel
to this dead tree.
I am young, yes, but too old for this.
And it’s fine.
I have my own Christmas which
lacks in artifice.
For, this year, what is mine
is perfect company and bathing,
flowing wine and flowing about me
the waters of her existence.
Her snowy complexion,
my white Christmas.
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