The smell of incense was heavy
And guarded the dingy room well.
Time passed slowly like the stifling breath of Yuletide
They were hiding from — the two lovers of Venice —
A woman with dark, luxuriant hair
And a man with a running nose.
Scent-leaf from Africa
Roasted over the fireplace with a tangible fragrance.
A lone candle burned and crackled,
Its tallow dripping profusely with crusts of romance —
......
Christmas is a long song sung in winter,
An epic poem written with white quill feather pen and
Gold ink, and on clouds of paper,
Beginning from a sneezing December to a
Dizzying twelfth-calendar month,
When snow drizzles gently into the souls of
Those who hearken to the tinkling sound of
The church bell which rings gently with the weight of
The slow-passing season.
......
He schleps constantly at noon
Through declivities and straight roads,
Bearing messages sealed by the hands
That laid them bare in the first place.
Sweat caresses his face, forming one mass of
Earnestness in every breath of delivery.
“Hello,” he says, “your mail. Your package.”
My palm breathes harder, having neared his.
I sign the delivery paper and reach out for the
Package.
......
He schleps constantly at noon
Through declivities and straight roads,
Bearing messages sealed by the hands
That laid them bare in the first place.
Sweat caresses his face, forming one mass of
Earnestness in every breath of delivery.
“Hello,” he says, “your mail. Your package.”
My palm breathes harder, having neared his.
I sign the delivery paper and reach out for the
Package.
......
The smell of incense was heavy
And guarded the dingy room well.
Time passed slowly like the stifling breath of Yuletide
They were hiding from — the two lovers of Venice —
A woman with dark, luxuriant hair
And a man with a running nose.
Scent-leaf from Africa
Roasted over the fireplace with a tangible fragrance.
A lone candle burned and crackled,
Its tallow dripping profusely with crusts of romance —
......
Christmas is a long song sung in winter,
An epic poem written with white quill feather pen and
Gold ink, and on clouds of paper,
Beginning from a sneezing December to a
Dizzying twelfth-calendar month,
When snow drizzles gently into the souls of
Those who hearken to the tinkling sound of
The church bell which rings gently with the weight of
The slow-passing season.
......