Boxing Christmas

It begins with the three reindeer, perched dangerously

at the edge of the mantel, diligently holding their

assigned stockings; oldest to youngest.  “No, please,

not today…wait until tomorrow!  We’re not tired yet.”  

I hear it from the Santa on the bathroom windowsill,

sitting alone in his patient pose, having lost

all means of transportation decades’ past,

“Don’t rush this son, another day won’t hurt anything.” 

Then, from the front room, a chorus of

melodious chirps; the bird ornaments - balanced

gingerly on branches by their silver tree clips -

“Hey friend, we’ve been free only a few weeks.

 Let us dream of the possibility of flight

for another sunrise or two?” 

This is one of the more definitive steps I take

at the end of the year, packing away the

vestiges of this hope-filled season;

wrapping each delicate globe and the children’s

hand-made homages to the jolly man and his red-nosed

guide.  I see reflected in the shiny blues, reds and

greens a few of my own perpetual desires that I

don’t want to put away in the dark, quiet corner

of the basement.  I may, in time, wrap each with

careful attention; but I sense, for now, that

I’ll grant each at least one more cold morning of witness.  

Dane Anthony, 12/2017