A Gift

We always want an explanation.
Knowledge leads to mastery, and
What are humans, if not masters
Of the world on which they live?
And, thus, we have our myths
Of winter. See the sun grow weak
And die, and be reborn, and see
A Son, who, likewise, rises in
The winter's depths, then dies,
And is reborn, and see a town
Alight in celebration, or, at least,
Intent on showing its defiance
Of the season's dreary monotone:
The blackened trees, the snowy
Ground, the gray, unyielding
Sky. And, as tradition has it,
Being Christmas, I should
Have a gift. I don't. I didn't
Think you'd come, and you
Should not apologize. You
Are my gift, you silly thing.
You are my present from my
Past, arriving without explanation.
That's all right with me.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 14 times
Written on 2012-12-25 at 13:00

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