Not a Child Anymore

The illusion of Christmas eludes me—a trick,

a magic that conjures a spell, with a click

of red and white LED lights; then the rip

of wrappings torn and tossed, and the glitter


of innocent dreams, of red and green brightness,

the shimmer of tinsel, and snowflake whiteness

sifted like flour. But Twelve Days of Christmas

count down to a close. Then comes the after-mess


piled on the sidewalk, and snowbanks turn gray

with soot. Put the blow-up Santa away.

Don me the spirit to match bitter days

like an ugly Christmas sweater. I may


succumb to wintery slush—too soon

after champagne toasts, amid lingering gloom

of a year gone stale. Happy New Year. The room

is hollow, and pine needles cling to the broom.


No sooner do I accept holiday chores,

but Christmas is vapor, a void once more.

The magic (?) goes back, like a gift, to the store.

and sorry that I’m not a child anymore.


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