You’d think, in forty-four Decembers’ span
Accumulated gloom would leave its stamp
And render me a melancholy man
In every heart I’ve known, grief makes its camp
It pounds its drum and hisses, “I’m the truth!”
And yet, a wick still burns in hope’s frail lamp
If anyone emerges from her youth
Still cradling that pale light within her chest
What secret keeps her safe from sorrow’s tooth?
The key comes in two parts (so I’d suggest):
Share beauty, love, and justice – bold and free
And notice how, despite your pain, you’re blest
And Christmastime? It’s opportunity
To practice both, to marvelous degree!