And so… the time has come. I’m posting my own work on my blog for the first time, and I decided to make it my newest one, which I wrote because of a challenge put forth by my family. “Write a Christmas poem!” my aunt said, but I could not think of anything to write about Christmas that hadn’t already been done. So, I decided to write a not-a-Christmas (but really a Christmas) poem. Enjoy!
A Poem Written in July (Or October)
There will be no rhyming (in this poem)
there will be no silent house and
my stockings will be worn
on my feet
The children won’t have their faces pressed
to foggy windows,
because this is not a Christmas poem
and there is no anticipation beyond
the usual childish wonder that the world
exists at all.
the windows won’t be foggy,
because this poem will be read in July (or October)
since this is not a Christmas poem.
this poem should be packed
away with the Halloween decorations, or
the tiny summer shorts —
this poem is seasonal,
for any season except Christmas season.
And we will not
remember an infant sitting in straw
surrounded by His Father’s creatures,
because this is July (or October),
and this is not a Christmas poem.
We will not
remember that birth,
because this is
(not about) the presents under a fir tree
(or about) the sticky puzzle ornaments made by
tiny fingers still marveling at the
existence of everything.
We will not wonder
whether the little baby in the straw held the
same wonder, or if he looked around
like he recognized the world the way a child knows
his younger brother, the warm squirming
baby his parents made.
We will threaten
little ones with the idea of coal in their stockings
but the threats will fall flat, because
this is July (or October)
and Christmas is too distant in the
minds of little ones to worry about just now.
Perhaps that’s the way His mother felt,
counting his ten perfect fingers and toes,
when the idea of a cross lofted upwards was too distant
to worry about just now,
when her little one was so tiny
and full of wonder at the world.
But we won’t think of these things,
not now, not just yet,
a Christmas poem.