drape the archways with boughs of fragrant evergreen
and set the angels holding candles by the door.
I sleep with carols skimming my dreams, a speck
of glitter in my hair, a wisp of powdered sugar on my cheek.
If it is possible to will the glory into existence, I will
put my foot upon the threshold and drag this tableau
into tireless repetition – to celebrate in spite of everything.
For whom is the cedar wreath ribboned in silver? For whom
the bowls of ripe and shining fruit? I see the childhood
visions in my mind, and still I sing the midnight song alone.
It was simpler when there were no choices but tradition,
when one could copy from a picture in a book, a psalm,
a prophecy that seemed so true, a day for children to curl
into the warmth of indulgence. Here love is the motivation
for cherubim and magi, a star my hope, my nativity.