LXXXVIII-XCI

  

LXXXVIII.

She used to quite enjoy her holiday
when she, the middle child, could outshine
her brother and her sister for a time
though often she does do that anyway.

I early rise and bake the spicéd rolls
then spread the icing, light the candle ring,
cue up the haunting melody to sing,
and wake my daughter, dress her for her role.

The thirteenth of December, Lucy’s light
is kindled o’er our eldest daughter’s head:
Sankta Lucia, patron saint of sight.

She’s not as chipper as she used to be
while serving fam’ly breakfast in their beds,
yet still she chooses this to share with me.


LXXXIX.

Medievals recognized four sorts of drunk:
the wine of lions looking for a fight;
the wine of monkeys frisky in the night;
the wine of pigs asleep within his bunk.

The wine of sheep was gullible when sauced.
To humours did these lushes correspond.
When in my cups, I find I’m rather fond
of ev’ryone, my ill will all but lost.

The Romans said “in vino veritas.”
I rather hope that chestnut may prove true.
By two drinks in, my soul, so tempest-tossed—

is calm and gentled, finding peace within.
Would you not wish to think that’s really you?
A love beneath propensity to sin.


XC.

The snow has fallen three days in a row.
A host of meetings cancelled in a week
can bring us all the respite that we seek
when we find out there’s nowhere we can go.

At first the kids are glad to ‘scape the school
though soon enough they’re bouncing off the walls.
Their sodden snow gear piled in the hall
may serve as monument to their misrule.

I’m not upset to see my dance card clear
though I confess some restlessness at heart.
All life must bow to winter’s whims up here.

So like a man in detox now I wait
within this time and place, both set apart,
until resistance to the pause abate.


XCI.

This Advent is the longest it can be:
four weeks before a Sunday Christmas morn,
a time of waiting until Christ is born
to set a dying world of sinners free.

In many ways this is my yearly prayer:
to keep an Advent slow from rushing by,
to contemplate in peace the starry sky.
In this the season has been more than fair.

The weather’s cancelled oh so many plans
and I for one shall not of this complain.
The storm enforces calm upon our lands.

Yet my divided soul is restless still.
To force it to be quiet comes with pain.
Behold: the winter bows not to my will.