Saint Nick's Great Day

Whether Jesus was gifted Frankincense and Myrrh,

Whether stories once told are the ones I've once heard,

Whether legacy fouled or embraced by the masses,

Or new visions shared through the world's different classes,

If fires in chimneys rage on through the night,

Or they burn through disaster, put houses alight,

There is one thing that Christmastime says in my gut:

That the warm-up is over, and Winter is coming.

The warmth that seeps into each one of my pores

As I cuddle the children, hear delicate snores,

And I look at the wrapping that's stuck to the tree,

And I soak in their smiles, their remnants of glee,

Only contrasts more greatly with each passing day

When the Cold has since conquered, and Frost comes to play.

As I look out my window, which shimmers with shades

And hues, greens and blues washing my lining's beige,

And I see the fog growing from corners, invading this space that so graciously keeps me alive,

I step back and I ponder why such a warm fest,

Where each every attendant is brimming with zest,

Makes me feel such a visceral knot in my chest when it drums at my windows and peels at my door.

I know Jesus was born in the August;

Pagans celebrate 12 days of Yule;

Churches celebrate, ring, echo voices to sing;

Yet I find the day needed, but cruel.

Otherwise, the façade that, for whatever reason one celebrates Solstice, would drop.

And for three desperate months, we would suffer through bleak winter's barren white; we would rot.

We need Christmas, or Yuletide, or Solstice celebration, whatever name one would deem

For if Thanksgiving was the last glimmer of good hope we'd hang onto for Winter, well... No need to be mean.

Mankind needs itself something to warm up the snow.

Mankind needs a warm memory, some golden glow

So when we recall snow, or the bitter wind's flow,

We have something to latch to, a nice place to go.

Otherwise, we see Winter for what it is: Death.

We see carnage on Nature, see murder, or theft,

By whatever's in charge. Theft of life, murdered chances

To make it to Spring, when the wildlife dances.

It gives something to grasp, and to keep us alive.

The warmth that it is purposely made and designed

To exude works its wonders. It fuels to the core.

So perhaps, this Christmas, celebrate a bit more.