We are close to having our house decorated for Christmas. For about a week, we had a tree with lights, but no time to hang ornaments on it. Finally, one afternoon, we did a fast job of ornament hanging. I've put some Christmasy things on the mantel, but we won't hang stockings--they're for show, anyway, since Santa doesn't visit our house with stocking size presents.
What will Santa bring me? A new roof!
The old roof probably had some years of use left, but with South Florida insurance regulations being what they are, and tightening by the day, we decided it was best to replace the roof while we have the money and legitimate roofers are available.
Still, I'm not in a real Christmasy mood--we're having a hot spell--or should I say, we've yet to have our first real cold front.
Maybe it's good that I'm not in a Christmasy mood--I tend to eat dozens of cookies at a time when I'm feeling Christmasy.
The poem I'm posting below is for everyone who is similarly irreverent about the season. In our own nativity scene hangs a purple plastic monkey from one of those games where you try to create a chain of monkeys--Pick-Up-Monkeys or some such thing.
And for those of you who are up for it, there's some interesting theology embedded in the poem. Think about all the castaways that followed Jesus and then read the poem again.
Of course, if you're not in a theological or Christmasy mood, you can see if I captured a sense of whimsy.
Through the years, the stable attracted
the odds and ends of our childhood toys:
a plastic soldier, his rifle chewed and mangled,
migrated from the war zone;
a horse, which once helped herd
plastic animals, now riderless and alone;
a Magic 8 ball with murky
water, the answers to our questions, obscured;
a nutcracker dressed in festive finery, but missing
its lower jaw, its mission in life undone;
lonely Barbie, hair shorn from too many experiments,
now loveless and forlorn;
a matchbox car, once prized, now missing
a wheel and limping along;
a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle doll with other refugees
from popular shows of past years;
a gingerbread boy gamepiece, knowing he belongs elsewhere,
neglecting his duties in Candyland, so compelling
is the baby in the manger.
from my chapbook, Whistling Past the Graveyard
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