The red’s a little tired, the green’s somewhat faded
the heart is still staunch though its palate is jaded
the eyes still seek the stars and the gifts the magi bring -
this broken day, my father, still feels like your blessing.
The gold’s gone a bit dull and the silver’s tarnished
and the truth’s hard to take when it’s left unvarnished.
But the mind still cups its ears to hear the north winds sing -
the seasons that split me open still feel like your blessing.
I read that the sky’s filthy and the earth is soiled
the land’s overcrowded, the rivers are hardboiled.
I stand at the threshold of your dusty dwelling
and the dancing motes morph to your hands raised in blessing.
Know that wherever you are, you’re the gift, and the kings,
each and every festival. And worship. Everything.
Wishing all who stop by here peace and joy and good health. And a tranquil New Year 2022.