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.