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.
