I’m forty-four in her living room
marvelling at the shimmering stars
of soft peace within her Christmas eyes
…and I wanted to believe.
I’m forty-one standing in awe
at the pure simplicity
of my son’s hazel eyes
praying that time isn’t depleted
of such whole holiday wonder.
I’m thirty-five burrowing through
a foot of Oregon Winter snow.
The tavern smells of pine
and amber spirits extracting
a glimmer of a smile through
my work-weary eyes.
I’m eleven years old
splitting hastily through
a high speed traffic jam of sleighs
beneath a grey blanket
of German clouds sprinkling magic
over a silvery conquered hill.
I’m a hopeful seven year old
tucked behind the icy wall
of war escaping hand-made flurries
of uncertain frosted fate…
The sky is a painted crystal target
for the fuzzy laughter of snowballs.
I marvel at the sparkling
down-covered Virginia countryside
and I can see the twinkling kiss
of my family’s tree standing solemnly
as it conjures a wide Christmas spell
across the stumbling blinking heart…
…of a forty-five year old father…
…who still believes…
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