It’s what we make of the season
that matters, as we light the fire—

Memories to mean something,
the pagan wreath unmistakably

smelling pretty, us and the earth
connecting at Solstice, the Roman
nose and will bending to the love
of Jesus and his words, a birth
reminding us of ours and those we love.

God shines no matter what we do;
the rose as sweet no matter the name.

Christmas spirit in a song or in a game!

Fun with Dad, because he so believed.
Shining paths for those we raise, it’s
theirs this canvas to paint, but
the wreath…

The wreath is a pre-religion relic
of the un-named God.

We are infants once.  We look up,
explore the five senses developing a
ready sixth that celebrates Christmas.

The staunch Jewish temple bows
to fresh greenery and lights.  The warmth
of the fire driving away the cold of night!

The Muslim heart as full as mine as
we reduce the height and all of life
to now.

God, Jehovah, One truth and bright.

By any other name we find
Constantine’s invention of a birthday
party in the middle of winter fun
like a brisk wind’s flowing kite, or
a clown’s smile at the speed of the clock

ticking away at bodies while the spirit soars.

We cannot escape the wind or the rain;
the cold an annual dance to make
us cuddle toward the sun.

We place a red coat on our back, smile
and celebrate Christmas—

the wreath on the kite of the clown’s
winter mask, rolling toward eternity.

The only place age cannot bother me