Once There Was A Christmas

Once There Was A Christmas


A yearning calls in my heart for a place that holds me in thrall.

Across the rolling fields of childhood recollection I look to what
in fondest hindsight distortions is still in good repair.
Dewy eyed, I dream of that pure childlike greed which
filled me like a pitcher as I stood in chilled morning vigil.

There was the tree. Stock still stood the spangled pine.
In splendor laced and multicolored beauty the branches
Waved the mirror orbs and waited
with me in cold anticipation.

There was a pile under the tree. Virgin wrapped,
the crisp papered packages jumble-piled upon each other
in chaos of plenty.
Such simple guess-filled waiting made the coming day shine
as I counted the booty with my name on it.

Finally the daylight.

There was a fireplace. Oft neglected hearth of the home, it was
fired and warm on this special day. Firebrick white it
shimmers in my memories. Warm and
woodsmoke-choked it condenses to a brightness.

There were stockings by the fireplace.
Huge and full of loving goodness, trimmed and brimming.
To me they were the best.
Candy and doo-dads, silly putty and decoder rings, these
Poured from the stockings in mounds of plenty to quell
my avaricious heart.

Remembrances of the crackling eddies of the fire vie with the
Sweet-toothed excesses for supremacy. Backward
Visions of those single and precious days are layered with
Choral voicings, crèche scenes and candles.
They all conspire to impose awe.
Mashing grateful emanations from an older, but not wiser, heart.

The child understood and believed. And in his belief he
made real the stories of yore. Rudolf and Dasher and sleds
in the sky—Old men with beards, red suited and
belly filled—These came and shared a bounty
goodness.

Fables were told—Even of the son and the star.

Christmas is in the heart. A heart which never knows,
never grows older. Has never left the ages of the three
Magi and those silly, happy songs. I wish that
heart an hundred years. Years in which to tell those
pop-eyed faces the tales so true.

Years have come. And in their passage the days weigh harder.
Yet still there is a Christmas
and still there is the child.


~~Stuart Andrew Marshall Tanner~~