Walkin on Air

That Time of Year


Up on the rooftop reindeer pause
with ne'er a thought for Santa Claus;
the snow piles high on cabins below
and reindeer have no snowshoes to wear
or nose-lights that will their position show,
not even jingle-bells so we can hear
they actually really, really are there.

Far away Mexicans use the Mule-ride
not caring a fig it's misfitting Yuletide:
I mean, it's Christmas-day after all,
so why bother to wonder with childish awe
how Jesus was born in a cattle stall,
warmed by the animals and fresh straw?
From the highlands an evil wind would blaw.

Now while the holy angels sang
the Moon was put out in thin air to hang,
the shepherds watched their flocks by night,
little children searched Santa in the Bible
thinking nothing short of of right is right,
anything else is just a mite less than libel:
David's Son is exclusive Judaic tribal.

And so it was in the far, far cold North
that no savior from ice and snow sprang forth.
Aye, pain and sorrow lay oddly still
as if waiting for a sign whence to stir and hew
the shapes of things to come in God's will
below the Hill of the Skull, where only a few
lost humans and the simple reindeer knew.

Gifts and shopping sprees cannot give us rest
like succoring sweetly on Jesus' breast;
believing he came to open our eyes
so we can see and find our way back home to Paradise!


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That Time of Year

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