Christmas Lights

Christmas Lights

 

Red light pokes through Christmas snow as a carpet

of wet brown dead pine needles softens your walk

from Usang Apartments to Immundae, where you’ve

sat, looking at Ggachi in Sycamores for seven years.

One eighth of the life so far boiled down to a poem,

a gathering, a suspended, augmented, finally diminished

goodbye.  But this is the season of hello, great merriment,

brotherhood, sisterhood: of Auld Lang Syne spiced with

eggnog, turkey, ham, the harvest feast to last through stronger

longer days, detectable to the naked eye on exactly December

twenty fifth.  My home town got its first four-foot blast in

November, so those snow-covered lights will diffuse a bit longer

than usual, emitting just enough color to stop frozen tears

from forming, and keep long-weary souls enraptured as humans

long enough for love to bloom again.  Fourteen hours of dark

but interrupted by lights many don’t take down until March. Why?

Because they know what color means to those who make their

appearance at Christmas then slink back, unable to match their desires

to the way the world really works. To them the Christmas Fa La La

means more than to the carol-leaders. A toast to quiet perseverance.

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