3.

.

On the evening of Thanksgiving Day I stood by my upstairs bedroom window

gazing out the window toward the metropolitan view of the City where I dwell

checking for snow, without expecting any, checking for homesickness

without finding any, simply a quiet and contemplative peace 

when I noticed to my delight that the trees across the street were shining a’ light

the Christmas decorations oh intense white lights which weather summer’s heat

had been ignited, briefly outshining the glum shopper’s report

forever sealing the two holidays into one fused memory and deep content

so unlike the years of my life when I was young and harried and hurried,

feeling as thought the success or failure of the season rested on my shoulders!

For here I stood, serene and slightly set apart watching as the Season took me in,

the clearly defined city street slumbering under its coverlet of darkness,

the unglimpsed stars overhead nodding in agreement with the slight breeze

that played tag between the warmth of the individual bulbs and the cold night air

and the sigh that escaped my lips lingered near in companionable silence.

This night I do not envy the field cloaked in sleeping sheep and dark,

the restless, gallant ship straining at its mooring longing to rest on the wine dark sea

nor even the vague image of that other woman I always assumed I would be

when I grew old and too infirm to walk along the welcomed solitude

of empty streets…no, not tonight. For now, I am content.

The spirit of the season rests in me … and I in it.

-

4.

.

As I watched late night television the Radio City Hall Musical was shown

an extravagance of sight and sound and moving images-both in the natural

and as grace to touch the hungry soul and I marveled, with all the struggle

to loose our Nation from the ‘freedom’ to worship GOD,

as long as it isn’t vocal or public, the fight to remove GOD’S Name

from our music even as we’ve weaned Him out of our children’s minds ~

here was the Grand story of Christmas told with reverence and pomp,

with glimpse of faces in the audience as children watched and heard

a story that we’re too quickly losing, with the real reason for the season

not to prop up sales and keep the economy afloat in greed and glitz

but a simple story told in elegance and grace and hues that seemed to breath

a life of their own infused with the heartfelt knowledge

that even if the stable remains as empty as it was on that First Night,

the Reason will remain to bless the simple and the wise.

-

5

.

I find it odd, or perhaps because the news checks its pulse so gingerly each night,

that the commercials and the shopping hype of X-mas isn’t arousing defensive

resentment on my part at the sullying of this holy Time, set apart,

perhaps because the mainstream of life has rushed so far ahead of me its frantic

jingle and clang of the poorly used cash register this season simply doesn’t reach

 this far back where I rest at the side of the road enjoying the sight of others

who follow the month and the Season in their own pace.

            I used to mock them and discount them, now I see their smiles and share

a nod as “Sully” now means a courageous pilot who saved many lives

and the rockets no longer mean Viet Nam bombs or the Race for Outer Space,

these things have lagged too far behind me to reach this Holy Holiday sphere

Time, created for our benefit, against whom we can never hope to win, is now

a slender thread linking us, using the Silver Needle of Hope in the midst of gloom,

the thread of common humanity, the Song of the Angels for illumination

and unification despite our status in life, or our place in the world, or lack

we are drawn instinctively to that late Spring night as the shepherds watched

and the angels sang and Humanities weary heart risked beating in time

with the thumb of a heart in a newborn boy’s chest.

6.

.

Why does it does it seem so easy to smile as Christmas and Hanukkah near?

Do we become as children and risk hoping and laughing and playing

Secure in the knowledge that a loving Parent is near, watching closing?

Except for brief nods to a godless and meaningless ‘Holiday’ of modern minds

The mills of greed and bottom line economics churn on without regard

The lives they touch remain the same, dealing with the cold, the gloom; the snow

 We shovel more, growl more, depend on a merchandizing splurge more ~ yet

Our hearts know. Don’t they? We watch closer, wanting to be united

Even when being too close together opens new wounds for in touching,

We are touched. In defining and demanding, we view the other person ~ perhaps

less as our preconceived notion then the less than perfect person they are,

a mirror to us whether we look too hard to not! The perfectly tuned inner pitch

humming in due time with the coursing of History and Place toward…what?

I think our hearts know this too, or wish mightily that it will be so,

For despite the President ordering thirty thousand more men and families in

Harms way, in spite of the dire predictions that we if we don’t put ourselves out

Put ourselves in debt, the debt the politicians rang up pleasing us will fall due,

We are able to hear that still small voice silenced by the clamor the rest of the year!

Merry Christmas! Blessings by the lights that represent a poor people fighting back

And winning their freedom, however brief.

We do not allow the flame of freedom and hope to die.

We can not allow the flame of hope and freedom to flicker and die.

For it’s Source is the One who made us to hope and believe and one day to be free,

As these winter solstice holidays prove as a token for what is yet to come.

-

7.

.

Heard close up as I return on my walk, the echoes of classical chimes

hovering in the still air over the busy street have a cathedral-like quality

of soft reverence and respect as I, I walk, one block in sunlight,

the next in shadow as I return home at a leisurely pace.

The healing at the back of my leg is unmistakable but so is the pain

as I creep, enjoying the cold being closed off by my heavy woolen coat

and thermal gloves where only my cheeks are exposed to Jack Frost’s

pungent and quick kiss – a peck and a promise before he flees

seeking women in high heels and scarves out on the street only for lunch

or a cigarette break as an excuse for breaking away from the rat race within.

There are a few tentative smiles, and I throw my own around freely,

still chuckling at the Hanukkah card I read in Rite Aide.

The birds are gone, even the gulls and the sparrows and it isn’t yet cold enough

For the Snow Birds to appear. Friday I saw the frantic wings emptying the Feeder

As I waited across the street for Paratransit and watched.

People gathered close together too, cigarette smoke curled above their wheelchairs

with brightly colored lap robes, thick coats and sad scowls beneath caps,

perhaps they wondered, as the birds did not, while I watched them overlong?

Perhaps they feared I ask them for money or cigarettes or attention,

instead I sat, hoping to fool the chill into not guessing I was animate,

wondering that Thanksgiving could flee so quickly and the Lights of the Season

seem to wait for their turn in people’s eyes.

Perhaps THAT’S what the snow is for? You think?

-

7.

.

Heard close up as I return on my walk, the echoes of classical chimes

hovering in the still air over the busy street have a cathedral-like quality

of soft reverence and respect as I, I walk, one block in sunlight,

the next in shadow as I return home at a leisurely pace.

The healing at the back of my leg is unmistakable but so is the pain

as I creep, enjoying the cold being closed off by my heavy woolen coat

and thermal gloves where only my cheeks are exposed to Jack Frost’s

pungent and quick kiss – a peck and a promise before he flees

seeking women in high heels and scarves out on the street only for lunch

or a cigarette break as an excuse for breaking away from the rat race within.

There are a few tentative smiles, and I throw my own around freely,

still chuckling at the Hanukkah card I read in Rite Aide.

The birds are gone, even the gulls and the sparrows and it isn’t yet cold enough

For the Snow Birds to appear. Friday I saw the frantic wings emptying the Feeder

As I waited across the street for Paratransit and watched.

People gathered close together too, cigarette smoke curled above their wheelchairs

with brightly colored lap robes, thick coats and sad scowls beneath caps,

perhaps they wondered, as the birds did not, while I watched them overlong?

Perhaps they feared I ask them for money or cigarettes or attention,

instead I sat, hoping to fool the chill into not guessing I was animate,

wondering that Thanksgiving could flee so quickly and the Lights of the Season

seem to wait for their turn in people’s eyes.

Perhaps THAT’S what the snow is for? You think?

-

.8.

.

While the Spirit of the Season fills my apartments with verse and song

and the smell of spice cake lifts the ordinary to the sublime,

I glance at Cat asleep in ‘his’ chair and then to the kitchen table where

‘his’ tree rests, guarded curiously and intently in its brief journey

from the top of the ice box to its place of honor on the table

and I smile as I find the meaning and peace of this season of Lights

and giving is etched on the glass of my closeted heart’s door

by a small, intent Being testing out his feline side.

Though I despair of the commercials pounding us from the media,

I discovered to my joy and relief-no doubt akin to his own-

when his journey ended with the three steps from the refrigerator

to the table where he walks with impunity,

just as mine ended with the Twelfth step of December for 2000 and 9,

to find the return of Christ to Christmas the freedom of traditional

holiday chorals I feared were denied us like Nativity Scenes…

can freedom be suppressed in a heart which embraces it?

I reach out in sleep and find a small white shape near in the night,

a reminder of the One who is love, who is truly,

the reason for the Season of Giving and lights!   

-

9.

.

.

With so many strangers coming and going in our life I worried about Shiloh,

I could have saved myself the trouble, for He cares about us all, and so does Cat.

Though its frequently irritating to have type over his head and endure love bites

on my wrist when he becomes annoyed at being ignored, I am touched

that he seems to care about being near me as I care about him!

What a wholesome reminder of the love GOD gives as we have our being in him,

as what we feel and know or think don’t have to be TOLD any more than

the substances of tangible life have to be told what pain or heat is.

Never has this been more real to me this chilly December First Week.

But when he gets his “Betty Davis’ eyes” ~ it’s time to take back control

and go back to work on the keyboard sincerely.

What joy that no melancholy lurks in the shadows of my room when we’re alone

For it seems as though the very air is filled with good company, if companionably

quiet and discrete, waiting in memories, the gift of a pine cone,

sharing a smile with someone who frowned-a little- then a unique smile,

the sight of an old friend waving hello from the elevator doors as they eased shut,

the resolute protection of Holiday feeling and love embracing me,

framing my smile where its glow can light inwards with holiday cheer,

sung about in the songs of the Forties and Fifties when Christmas drew near.

The ‘manger’ now being framed crudely as ‘a feeding trough’ cannot extinguish

The Child who was innocently laid within it but as our President is shown-again-

and yet again-in his scholars mode - wrapped in Christmas emotions, I wonder

if that’s why Christ is instinctively back in so many Christmas shows this year?

I asked Cat, but he only broke up his purr in subtle mimicry of me

as I had kept time to Christmas melody in hums and purrs, and I suppose,

in hindsight, that’s the only real question I want to ponder this early - this year!

“SHILOH, A Gentle Companion. Poem #12”

-

10.

.

.

Yesterday I went to the Dollar Store to purchase an angel for the top of ‘his’ tree.

I found a garland with tiny bells which reflected the winter sun this afternoon

as bright and merry as any cast from silver or polished bronze or bright

as the joy reflecting in me at seeing how well the haphazard pieces came together

into a cohesive whole like the glow and costuming of a professional show

~ in my modest opinion; as something outside of myself.

I unwrapped the three woodcarvers with troll-like white hair,

And thought of the silver filling up my brown shafts from the roots,

I hung the miniature Christmas Teddy bears, but only eleven made it to the tree,

the twelfth got broken and had to sit beside it on top of the scented candle,

set apart just like me. But at last it was complete.

I looked for Cat to see his reaction; if the white cloth with gold stars

set his heart to dancing the way it did mine, but he was asleep in the other room!

I laid down, too tired to care, but a new feeling for the Season snuggled

in the warmth between us as the cold hugged to the corners of the wall.

I wrongly guessed that the meaning of the season was lost on him…till…

I looked up from the computer at the sound of a soft ‘thud’…

The miniature wreath hanging from the ceramic cat’s tail on the back of the door

Had fallen and as I picked it up to re-hang the small sculpture

and the Sign of the Time, Cat suddenly leaped from ‘his’ chair in a fright,

running to my ankles and blocking my step???

Meowing anxiously as I carried ‘his’ wreath to some unknown destination,

in the same intense scrutiny and intense reaction I deal with each year

as I carry ‘his’ tree from the top of the ice box, four steps, to the table!

And it humbled me that he watched until I was done, making sure no harm

or change had come to the green tinsel and red bow, or the second angel

whose weight had caused it to pull away from the back of the door.

Maybe perception isn’t all of reality for I saw he care, but being a Cat,

He didn’t see the need to state the obvious ~ like me. 

“SHILOH, A Gentle Companion. Poem #13”

11.

.

I woke reluctantly ~ for the sheer presence of the dream enfolded the entirety of

my being into its gracious and welcoming reality. The sense of

connection with the vibrant Being who made no attempt to hide His face from me,

and Jesus was free to return it, although the thought of matching it was

as impossible as the dream was real! ~

It was too early for the sounds of traffic, the alluring chimes of holiday psalms,

set to familiar tunes. Too early for almost anything except to

wrap my fingers around the cloth of the dream and coax it to remain yet

a little bit longer, to wrap it around my shoulders while I was still free to

dare to dream its inner rhythms and themes. Then I heard the low purr.

Cat was coaxing me awake to feed him, with soft kisses on my finger, a light nip

to display his irritation at being left home alone for so long yesterday, then he

laid his head on my shoulder and waited for my sleepy shuffle to lead me

to fill his food dish in the charming and restful silences as

Chanukah nestles in the bosom of burgeoning Christmas, waiting its turn. 

.

12.

.

At Wal*Mart the aisles are crowded with shoppers,

grocery carts weaving though the irregular passages

between stranger’s carts. Smiles and eye contact

at the accidental, almost inevitable collisions,

a sure Sign of the Season

when we dare to look at one another and risk

that our smiles will be returned.

A gift beyond measure, for such little cost

.

13.

.

Heavy coats, warm woolen mittens and insulated hearts to guard

against the disappointment that crept in and troubled February and June;

it’s the Holiday Season again, we wondered if it would dare to show its face?

At the doorway of the department stores dreaming of parting us with our cash

stands the Red Kettles reminding us this season of those who have little or none.

A silvery bell between pauses of intense shopping, assisting Santa

in these perilous times of ‘economic downturns’ and emotional upswings,

as pink slips replace red Christmas ornaments and even Santa must tighten his belt.

Yet so early in the month as it is, there is a warmth between faces

as strangers give off a radiance of the incorruptible portion of the Season,

spilling out as apologies and red cheeked smiles, the quick smiles ~

presents no one minds returning at all.

The cherry songs and the song of awe in the hungry heart that beats in time

With the whispery reminder of silver bells and snowy nights till Santa

rides across the time zones and the world can breath a troubled sigh of relief,

for one more year is almost over, one more year the earth stayed intact

awaiting the joyous angelic announcement of His glorious return

This time, no longer the Babe of the Manger, but the Lord of all.

.

14.

.

Monday, December Fourteenth, Two thousand and nine:

a silver mote wafted past my window on its irregular flight; catching my attention

and for a moment I thought I’d only imagined the sense of movement,

but at long last another, no larger than a pin head, giving the word ‘fragile’

a new delicateness of meaning to its existence. Then a triad of snow flakes,

forced a obtuse triangle filling the center with silence as it dipped and swayed

dramatically on its downward plunge, then silence, waiting, anticipation.

The first snowfall of the season to reach downtown. Then more.

Larger. Clustered. More defined, more hurried in their path down.

Some wafted upwards on the currents forced by the speeding cars heedless

of the warning specks against their heated windshields,

while still others took the time to examine both sides of the street

on their way down, before they chose, which one, they would grace.

I watched fascinated, frustrated, I don’t want ‘snow and ice’ but these crystalline

fantasies have a vibrancy and recurrent courage I can’t help but admire.

Many’s been the year when we’ve already had three and a half months of snow.

But not this year, this Christmas. I must wait….and so I watch…and wait,

Another Pacific Northwest Winter tradition I have taken on as my own.

-

15.

.

A couple argued in the midst of the artic cold that didn’t warm over Canada

on its way back down to my street and my portion of the town.

She is sensibly dressed in coats, boots and mittens, but he is heated with

arguments coursing within in, his stocky legs in summer cut offs

As he gestures as he walks into the ally, she demurs, getting in on the driver’s seat.

Later the car will return, with him in it and then she drives off again alone

as I watch, wondering if our ‘sheet’ of snow will thicken into a ‘blanket’

any time soon?

The gray of the clouds has unobtrusively lowered to cloak the street,

modesty shields for the snowflakes now stuck to my window pane

behind my back?

A siren wails from the freeway, life continues unabated.

Am I the only one watching?

I watch as more and snow fluffy droplets are coaxed to the waiting ground,

sometimes single, sometimes in pairs, their greater weight pulling faster.

A snow flakes view of a bald headed man as he races across the briefly empty

street; jaywalking in his haste to purchase a deli meal. People,

sometimes single, sometimes in pairs, their greater weight pulling them faster,

seem not to notice the drifting portents. No one looks up.

But then, no one looks up to see me watching from my window either.

.

17.

.

The snow slipped down anonymously during the night shielding everything.

When I went to bed they’d contented themselves filling in the cracks

burned into the street asphalts but that heat of car’s exhausted soon melted

this morning I woke to light through the blinds too soon for the hour on the clock

and I knew, without looking, that what I had watched and waited for

did its Santa’s trick and came softly while I was soundly asleep.

As white as the small form snuggled beside me, as welcoming as a smile.

Then as I woke again to find the fog had taken away the skyline I saw

that life had continued unabated while I slept in, buss tracks, shoppers walking

from the deli with steaming cups gripped between their mittens.

The chimes sounding as if they were tolled just below my window,

the siren on the freeway a reminder that icy streets are twice as dangerous

yet another reminder that life hastens toward its own goals and rewards for others

as I rest quietly in my corner of the Inland Empire watched over by

a solitary pine wrapped in Christmas Cheer as I light the fifth candle

to reflect the Light of the Season shined so wetly into my closeted heart

by Yuletide care and caroling, by gifting and giving, and receiving anew,

the reminder of the best that heaven has to offer.

.

19.

.

I find myself compelled to ignore the cold as I stand at the top of the Spokane Falls

watching spaces that seem to hover over shapes usually hidden by the rush of water

my mind allowed to rest contemplatively as I am serenaded over my shoulder

by the electronic carols and the chimes of the cathedral tucked away trees

now sentential under white coats of the wintry season, somulent residents enduring

what we endure, who draw inward to rest as we draw indoors to bake and laugh

and move in artificial lights to celebrate what can not be seen outdoors.

There are no birds overhead, no roar of rushing waters compelling my heart to race

in time with their anxious rush from here to there-wherever there is-

I find myself compelled to ignore the cold as I stand, for there is something here

That’s here in summer when I haven’t the time to enjoy its soft laughter,

Its here in the fall when I can’t look away from the splendid vigor of the dying leaves

the colors rioting, vying to outdo one another in this year’s glory before…

the slow descent into winter begins to form around the edges with their reluctant descent

into the eddies of water to join others, having accomplished their goal, lingering…

as I do now as I stand at the top of the Spokane Falls, leaned against the cold stone

feeling the wind curl around the back of my neck despite my wool scarf,

but I ignore the cold to answer Winter’s siren call to slow, to think, to merely be,

to reflect on what remains unseen during the busy parts of the years when warmth

demands growth, movement, pace, adventure, purpose…while Winter reflects….

and urges me too. As I stand at the top of the Spokane Falls, leaned against the cold stone

listening to the sounds of Christmas, the hearty shouts of people accompanied

slammed doors and hasty retreats from the bitter Artic commandeering of the air.

In my mind I stand in the warm of a cave made stable, listening to the contented

chew of a cow with her cud, though I don’t know they had cows in Bethlehem,

I heard the small stamp of a small donkey briefly freed from its labors

And the soft in and out of a new born baby, a young mother’s first son,

I look at the stones of the river and imagine them lining the cave where a lullaby

is sung, accompanied by a shepherd boy on his flute and I am filled with awe.

Tasks will have to wait. Tomorrow won’t get here any sooner for my haste.

But in this moment of respite granted to the weary earth and thus imparted to me,

I am as transformed as the Life, which was before the first wail of the infant king

and the world that followed, one day upon another since.

And for the moment I step out of the cave into the moonlight on that sleeping hill,

And I am content. For I know all this is held by One greater than I!

.

20.

.

This year’s Volunteers coming to my house brought an additional something

to ‘our’ celebration of Chanukah and Christmas this year, Shiloh and I!

With their help the small signs of my disability were wiped clean from the house

their youth and joy and individual stories reminded me of Old Folk’s saying

how the young are proof that GOD isn’t done with this weary old world yet.

All things can be renewed even as the earth, which begins her profound slumber

is renewed under the winter chill and the enforced pauses we fill with holidays.

The chance to show off Cat’s Tree with its new Guardian Angel at its spire,

the sound of new voices, the energy of the Life which sometimes hides beneath

the weight of my sighs and far too sunny, sunny skies ~ and I sense

for the first time at sixty-five what my Grandmother said with whispers and looks

of fond regret toward a horizon that I could see as a flat line of desert

shimmering in Nevada’s summer heat; warmth denied except inside my heart

thoughts nestling with the memory of sugar cookies warm from a wood burning

stove, the slap of the frost when you opened the door, the sting of molasses

whipped into the creamy white heart of fresh churned butter, the pain of blisters

from gripping the handle of the churn too tightly despite fond warnings…

the sound of wild geese resting in their flight to eat cracked corn with the few

surviving hens that would be kept all winter despite the lack of eggs,

the snap of a log where pitch catches fire and dances in wild, heated abandon

burning itself out in a display etched vividly on a mind no longer young.

The sound of Sugar’s hooves on the thin frost, which had to do as ‘snow’

The reason I chose snow at the end of my journey, I’m tempted to think now.

The sound of carols and my grandmother’s laughter as we pulled down the brass

bells for the harness. The brass menorah forbidden her children now gleaming

in a place of honor. Christmas and Chanukah

celebrating the birth of freedom, proof of God’s miraculous power undaunted,

combined again in a heart almost overwhelmed by the seasons’ love,

but gratefully so! Gratefully so! 

-

.21.

.

Regretfully Chanukah was something to be shut away in the closet,

in the Fifties and Sixties, and ‘the Four Seasons’ meant only a restaurant,

my Quaker Daddy’s beloved Christmas Trees, which mean so much in memory,

were seen as ‘Chanukah bushes’ when they couldn’t be avoided being seen at all.

So it is with a wry smile I glance to the dining room table to see ‘Cat’s Tree’ 

with its gaily colored decorations and new translucent angel at its spire

and feel as if Big Ed’s chair where linked from the House on West 38^th Street

where cigar smoke from the treasured quarter cigars lingers around his head

and I know a smile will rest when he sees my looking in his direction,

I am playing with my dolls on the front room carpet, skinny knees that bend,

a heart that quests though I rest now, looking back ~

a deeply content old woman whose hair is turning as pale as the snow I’ve chosen

in an apartment that acknowledges only one male, and he a cat, but love,

the Christmas Gift given so freely in that upstairs apartment of many rooms,

I can taste the oranges on my tongue, feel my teeth sink into sugar sweet apples,

the lure of a thin chocolate shell over an unripe cherry, fruit rinds glazed

and colored with patent flavoring meant to mimic what lay within.

The smell of yeast bread and baked Christmas Wreaths, while Matzo and Challah 

have years to wait until they take their rightful place on my table,

but time is as slow as molasses in January and it allows a freed heart to skip over

the vulgarities of real time to return to an encapsulated moment lodged within.

Though many things change, including seasons, Holidays stay the same!

.-

23.

.

I walk with my collar turned up against the wind, hands in my pockets

a smile lingering at the condensation of my breath on the edge of my scarf,

my heart made light as I hear the rhythmic clop of horse’s hooves on asphalt

as a holiday carriage finds it way through the crisp winter’s air as cars

easily make room for a different form of ‘horsepower’ and human beings

seem highlighted again rather than the store windows with their items demanding

to be purchased to silence the gloom of newscaster’s nightly gloomy predictions

saying we must ‘buy’ out way out of trouble, though we would then share

in the government’s woes of financial irresponsibility ~ changed, for a

heartbeat into the simply pattern of sounds of mute beasts obeying their masters

whether we do or not. And though they pass by me faster than I may,

the smell of warmed horseflesh, the scent of oiled leather and memories compete

with the remnants of burnt fossil fuels and green houses gasses and global

anything…bringing me to a place where an Orange and a new pair of mittens

were immediate, if not the gratification of fancy toys I expected of that age. 

My slow step lengthens, my smile deepens, my eyes look inward and I touch

that Girl on the shoulder, feeling how skinny and tall she is, how many dreams

are locked up inside her, unmoved by the flood of meaningless words used

to hide something so precious she hopes This Old Woman will feel and

remember and I hug her, grateful that she and I have remained linked by

the one thing that didn’t change with the whirlwind alterations that led us here,

that at the sound of “Oh Holy Night” or “Away in a Manger” we bow

our knees in adoration of the Jewish King and Mankind’s Savior; 

in honor of His birth and the promise He brought clinched in a newborn’s hand

that the Peace of God will one day rule the earth and weeping shall be no more!

Then I must let her go, to fulfill the other promises I made to her.

One day! One day soon!

-

24.

.

The Bells of Christmas to come chime on the still air as I rise slowly from my bed,

taste the sweet and sour of molasses stolen from the mules and wipe my chin

with a hand slender and small, with lean fingers that still bless a keyboard

but this time of a piano as the notes of my extreme youth fade and Shakespeare

still intimidates me, though some of my poems have already been published.

This year Chanukah awakens a patience I never dreamed rested within me. 

The approach of Christmas promises a joy I find being filled with each Candle

I light within my heart where its flame will never be extinguished and I am ~

I am old, I am at the end of my journey, I am content.

I lift my hand to Heaven to raise praises not to shake it in anger;

the questions I had have been answered, and I find love inherent in them

promised, as if for the first time by this acknowledgment of the Season of Love.

I watched a film show Peter and Paul in exciting new ways, and I heard

a refrain as old as the Christmas hymns I adore, attempting to separate anew

Jew from Gentile, Peter from Paul, attempting to put one above the other,

But this time I only smile.

If I have finally learned the lesson of Christmas, which was deliberately

separated from its origins in Bethlehem, and the giving of Gifts

from the Gift given to Mankind, it is that my Grandmother was right!

She who had to give up her Jewishness for peace, sighed, looking at us

and foretold as did the angels as Heaven’s glory poured out that night,

that everything would grow, all would be revealed, and the day will come

when ‘peace on earth’ is more than phrase sung on the radio ~

and we will know the peace that slept beside the newborn King as He was

watched over by Love and loving parents and Christmas will be a day

no longer, but a way of life! The Lights of Chanukah and the miracle of

God’s provision they represent will be the Light of the Lamb

Who brought us peace and made us whole ~ in Him.

-

26.

.

The return of the rain has melted the snow into mounds leaned against curbs

keeping the shadows of the trees intact.

Again noises are muffled, the streets proudly bear the black stripes of traffic

mixed with the sigh of relief at inches of snow while the Storm that brought it

dropped feet of snow as it coursed its way East but commingled here

the quiet realization that snow will return ~ it only paused,

Spring is yet many months away.

I turn away from the condensation of my sighs on the winter-chilled pane

to warm lights, yellowed with calm and lingering holiday odors,

Fudge coalescing in the oven, cookies airing on a wire rack, Ginger and Nutmeg

Floating on the warmed air rising from the oven, keeping the air in motion

like my scattered thoughts or my fingers moving across the keyboard

in keeping with an agenda and a purpose of their own linked to the Now

I keep slipping away from as childhood memories come to call,

Knocking softly on the partially opened door of memory just to be sure

 they aren’t intruding, but already well advanced into the room knowing

their welcome, especially at this time of the year,

and I pause, briefly the link between both, and happily immersed in holiday’s joy

as the last day of Chanukah gracefully draws herself to a close.

 ‘Hair’ on the miniature Nutcracker of Shiloh’s Tree moves in time with the heat,

mimicking the hint of stifled laughter as the red-and-gold angel just below

holds herself erect proudly, loftily apart from the lesser ornaments

which have only to do with the ‘recent’ invention of Santa Claus and North Pole

Workshops where children may ‘earn’ their reward for being good,

just as their parents may purchase it for them, while her kind sang from excitement,

Heaven spilling out into the darkness from ‘the waters above the waters’

now silent and becoming saturated with green houses gases and the expelled breath

of people waiting too long to see events far past their life span, if not hers.

Yet the King’s Birth is still celebrated and the vision seem however masked

and angel voices rise from the children so new to this earth and the souls who

keep it locked in their hearts the rest of the year, released by cinnamon and sugar,

tinsel and colored foil wrapping, by tiny jingle bells and Silver Bells

calling for charity for those who have even less than merely empty pockets

at Yuletide Season. 

And I am reminded of what I push aside. That Joy is year round, that Love

Doesn’t have an expiration date, and that Cat knows each ornament by name.

It’s enough. For I smile. And its enough, because precious are the memories

It unleashes from a heart grown larger by having to make room each year

with additional ornaments from the Dollar Store for Shiloh’s Christmas tree.

-

27.

.

The tree is small and odorless, perhaps a trifle dusty from its wait on the ice box

yet when it is moved those four feet to its place of prominence on the table,

it is transformed and so is the whole house, for Cat and me! 

The bendable arms twist to accommodate the new ornaments in perfect mimicry

of a living tree, cut down in its prime, yet easier on the conscience,

holding that beauty in trust, year after year as new ornaments are added.

The Translucent, Transcending Angel finally at rest at its apex

because last year I debated and when I returned, they were gone.

Bringing the display into new prominence, new completeness, new meaning

as Chanukah ends and the near approach of Christmas Day brings

the looming shadow of an entirely New Year with its own gifts and sorrows.

Pain cannot diminish the reassurance of this annual holiday preoccupation

With sugar cookies, stripped candy canes, mistletoe and myths

Of a jolly recluse who gives anonymously the joy and labor locked in his heart

All the year round~ the nameless, faces helpers who match his ideals

with active participation like their year long counterparts among the poor.

The long, long memories of my Dad and his obsession to find the BEST tree

we could afford, waiting till Christmas Eve if necessary,

the ornaments from years before I was gracing me with hearing stories of

people and love and snow filled nights when laughter was the only gift

they truly had to share with mother and father and sister.

And the softly breathed hope, like a prayer, that in the midst of dolls and toys

demanded from the constant streaming of advertising from the new t.v.

with pictures on air waves would be nestled the true meaning 

“The Reason for the Season” the celebration of a singular birth. A Life lived

in supreme example of service and selfishness ~ like his own.

Yes Daddy, I did understand, I do see what you struggled to impart.

He exists and I do because of Him. Those do who deny Him, but what a joy

to wake the day after the presents are known and the cocoa has chilled

to find the promise given the ancient Jewish Sages renewed

in Him, in you, Daddy, and now in me.

Perhaps, my softly breathed hope, like a prayer, that in the midst of dolls and toys

demanded from the constant streaming of advertising from the new t.v.

with pictures on air waves would be nestled the true meaning 

“The Reason for the Season” the celebration of a singular birth

and Spirit filled Life will dawn in its true meaning through the months to come!

.

28.

.

Waiting in the hospital lobby, one of the few public places which supported no

public Christmas tree with boughs brought low with fragile ornaments,

I am put in mind of the glories of the holiday so amplibly highlighted in the lobby

of our apartment building this year ~  two trees, one seen through the window

and one in the back where we gather with friends and family, not visible

to passing strangers and somehow, more intimate and dear because of it.

At the entrance is the familiar spruce tree shaped board to hold

the card given by the residents on the upper flights.

Fresh paint, wind-burnt faces, voices calling out first names with familiarity,

Christmas in the inner city. While outside the ceiling high windows

what was white for a day, is green again, under its gray coating of frost,

The air warmed too much to allow us to see our breath on it, yet cold enough

for seasonal winter’s cap of wool, for scarf and mitten for use rather than show,

a living version of a Courier and Ives print, even with horses drawing a carriage

with bells tied to their haunches that give a jingle and shake with each step.

A curious sense of peace invades my mind as I linger at the elevator,

waiting to go upstairs to a peculiar domain dominated by Cat and me.

I look down the hall, past the mailboxes into the great hall festooned discreetly

with mature and festive tokens given to the season, inviting one near,

New traditions explored and settled in, old friends, new names to learn

as we gather to eat and drink sugared drinks in celebration of our union

as neighbors, as fellow voyages from Two thousand Nine to Twenty ten.

Memories, new and old mingle, mixed with the cold and the anticipation

of a milder January this year ~ but that too will have to wait.

The elevator door just opened.

-

29.

.

I linger at the bust street corner hearing children’s voices from the Park

as if they were reaching out to include me in their play.

I return smiles sans speech or the need for names or proper introductions.

The lights wound around the trees on the street come to live in the half-light

as fog winds its intricate path between our shapes and moving cars.

The captured boughs graciously bearing a burden on their emptied limbs,

standing sentinel even when the early afternoon light fades too quickly.

that in the odd moment I look out my window at the city scape glowing

sublimely below my frosted window pane I am never disappointed,

capturing the hidden meaning of the season on boughs that sleep comfortably.

The ‘warmth’ of the day slowly seeps from between objects now less visible

As night curls around the tree roots and building roofs with equal ease,

and I allow the blinds to fall shut, recapturing the golden light around me

and the warmth provided by a wall heater any Judean king might envy.

The next day I rise and move among the electric chimes that have an odd

metallic ring, like a children’ song sung slightly off key, made almost

~ aggressive ~ by the surprisingly leap in temperature that

took away the snow away overnight and returned only rain darkened streets

in its place, perhaps too keen to remind us of the Decembers Season?

and through it all  the simple pleasure of silver bells and tires on asphalt.

The more things change, the more they stay the same!

Anonymous show windows glow in exquisite displays aimed for the soul,

the mood of the season to mellow the pocketbook and extract all it may.

with pint sized Santa’s, children and reindeer or busy elves working

into the very first moments of Holiday glow, near enough to Christmas

to seem oddly prophetic. While people in caps and scarves hang shopping bags

from their favorite stores like ornaments on an animated Christmas tree

of modern greed and sensibilities shout their creativity while still leaving time

for prepared you-bake Sugar Cookies and Instant Cocoa.

I walk past them , leaned against my green walker, in another world from theirs,

But allowed and tolerated like gray snow on the curbs and mounds of ice

gathered in rows down the center of the street to guide icy slick tires.

I walk slowly, drawn by the easy exchange of smiles between strangers,

friends, while mechanical minstrels ply their trade along the wind swept street

while old men with neatly trimmed white beards gardener intent scrutiny.

There is an air of warmth and familiarity that suggests this is the way

it’s supposed to be, no matter what might be happening

in the remainder of the world.

The wind bites as I turn to go home, taking my last minutes burdens to the table

Where I may wrap them, drawing my hood closer to my head,

but it doesn’t sting as much as my tears of joy on wind chapped skin.

-

30.

.

Away from the center of town the homes and porches shine with creativity,

electric icicles hung in the cold until the appearance of the real thing

as darkness presses its weight against the resident side street much too early

in my humble estimation. Winter won’t be here until tomorrow morning!

The Van pauses at a stop light and I am permitted a brief glimpse indoors to a

mighty tree is decorated in colored lights, warm and inviting, but unattended.

Nighttime at three-thirty in the afternoon enfolds the light within with golden hue

and it sets me to dreaming since I have no control over the route simply the site

of my ultimate destination, a little like Life itself.

Along the way we are privileged to glimpse wire reindeer and hot air balloons,

urchins and placid Santa’s who must already have their presents bought.

But only one Nativity even as we pass churches, and it leads me to wonder.

What weight does my opinion lean their decision to decorate so publicly?

Is my silence, my complacency a part of the problem or just ~

a preamble for secular holidays yet to come as we forsake the Season’s depth?      

Artificial snowflakes made of Styrofoam taped to the Clinic window gleam.

The sun shines through the brightly polished window, lighting the scotch tape

holding cut-out snowflakes, lighting the leaves outside the window with teardrop

paths of silver and icy whipped green, while the real thing seems to prefer anonymity

 out of sight, falling in silence to greet the morning with a fresh, unbroken surface.

The smells of turkey and ham wafting wonderfully from the communal

Restaurant and resting place for work wearied souls in the basement

Entering the lobby through the momentarily opened service elevator,

Linking one level with another, as my memories link this year with the sixty-four

that preceded it. Even more spiced and individual as I walk home the few

blocks from the bus stop to my home where Shiloh sleeps,

waiting for my return.  Reminding me of seasons past when the children

of that day played tag in the snowless alleys or the mountain ridges above town

in polyester and woolen coats from Sports minded catalogues, or Sears,

and the children I hear playing around me in the park, in coats and caps

and woolen mittens that aren’t for show, but to protect from the snow

as I linger at the last street corner, waiting for the traffics light in red and green.    

Then the moments harden into their ‘storage containers’ at the back of my mind

and are slipped under the childhood bed of West 38^th Street

to rest comfortably beside other years and other voices, too precious

to simply throw away: candy canes and mistletoes, the sound of the doorway

chimes at the bottom of the steep staircase where street light shines on

ornamental bells without clappers that symbolize Home when I’m at school

.-