Christmas Eve
the veil fell;
on webbed tiptoe
two ducks attended,
thickening the silence.
Christmas wrap
of folded wing
nodding branch
satin of still water —
in such small space
so vast a peace.
Wishing you a moment of peace, dear reader, in the traditions you hold dear.
A plate of Christmas cookies
is so much more than that
it’s a serving of family history
forebears’ concordat
it’s Grandma’s recipe card
in her distinctive hand
it’s Mom’s poinsettia plate
generational ampersand
connecting younger fingers
with those gone long before
sweet and sticky memories
toothsome family lore.
On brittled page
shadows finger
winter’s braille
summoning day’s ghosts
in silent
bedtime tale.
My last two kitchens had islands
the ultimate luxury
the kitchen I live with now
is bestowed more modestly.
So I follow the ways of my grandmas
and my mother, apt and able,
enlisting our four-legged friend,
the enduring kitchen table.
But I have a homey bauble
with which they weren’t stuck
a low-hanging ceiling lamp
which I cannot remember to duck.
Hovering over the table
at just the exact right spot
it clunks against my head
and elicits descriptive bon mot.
Some day I’ll explain to my neighbors
the reverberant mystery
the gong heard ’round the ‘hood
it isn’t Big Ben — it’s me.
Yes, I know, dear reader. I took liberties with my French. It was too awful not to use.
The jollified tree
lifts sprightly knee
in roadside jig
a la Fezziwig
good spirits contagious
if not too umbrageous.
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
Oddments 