The dormant grass has pushed aside
the blankets of white it normally wears
and instead sports green Christmas couture.
Rain has come this year, like Santa,
not the usual ho ho snow
that all of art and commerce
project upon our holiday hopes,
which we hang like stockings.
My nices outweigh my naughties,
so whichever white-bearded Big Guy
is really in charge up there
salted those rain clouds for another reason
than to turn this poet’s soul
from black to dinge. Though, even
if it was white — hey, it could be! —
this wet Christmas has grayed it, too.
No white Christmas this year for my home ground a few miles north of where the Hudson and Mohawk Rivers meet beneath the mistletoe at Cohoes. In fact, we could have some flooding. Now I’m no fan of the white stuff when it comes to driving or shoveling, but I do like waking on Christmas morning to the sight of my world covered with white frosting, like the cinnamon buns I always made for the girls’ Christmas breakfast.
In case I don’t get back here tomorrow or Thursday, Merry Christmas to you, lovely readers of my second-chance writing life. You are a gift to me.