It's

the people, stupid, guided past

lights

wrapped round shrubs and

along

window frames gathering

not

for Mass but a celebration in song

as

the community file down aisles

before

the words of God ever make

an

appearance in lyric.

It's

the children singing and acting

in

ways that children used to sing and act, without pretense, with no grand theft thrust or guilt over the bite in a cookie.

Jesus

cares less for perfect pitch

or

his man color; rather instead

whether

his children think of stars

and

snow maidens.

 

It's

the altar covered with colored

plastic

wraps and presents and ribbon.

It's

the adjacent graveyard strewn

with

giant candy cane, bright red and

purple

flowers; even some tinsel

for

the long gone and departed dears

who,

regardless of when, are no

longer

present to unwrap the morning

with.

 

Here

the crows and ravens are kept

away.

Here the gargoyles and drug

induced

visions dissipate like a sea

of

vapors and many now aware that

alcohol

is itself as much an eternal

season

as scotch tape and redacted

hetero-propaganda;

man give pause.

Yet

the din of ordinary people

performing

for the extraordinary

time

we live in merits more than

the

praise of words.

 

It's

the people, stupid, who hijack

holidays

with a fox and splat-hungry

hounds;

dirty news the elves themselves

would

spit at, or any self-respecting

worker

bee for that matter. It's about

the

opportunity to participate for you

and

for me and for every extant ass

in

the streets...over there...stupendous

what

a little attention to detail can do.

​

Above

all and beyond the measurable

behold

the sight of the younger daughter

sharing

a square sheet of bubble wrap

with

her bedridden and largely immobile

father

whose bent left hand adroitly

snapped

6 tiny orbs before she under-

stood

the gift of being the right place.

And

that is December: the joy of one

immersed

entirely by the wholly

unexpected

joyous event of another.