A SEASON ALL TOO RARE

O’ Lord . . . thy trumpets blow!

And beckon us from whence we grow,

As bells do toll in Centers' Square,

Thy birth and presence, all too rare.

'Tis five and late and traffic swells,

A host of cards all wishing well,

Their voices fade . . . I hear not mine,

But all too rare at Christmas time.

I round the bend and thus return,

To candy canes… and cinnamon,

With glee from youth on castles tall,

A late-night kiss… steps in the hall.

Mom’s voice rings softly, "Christmas Eve,"

As flannels turn and father grieves,

But such is "worth" as morning comes,

With bikes and dolls and soldiers' guns.

I long to come to childhood then,

When love was free and all around.

But since I've grown, I realize still,

"His coming" made it all so real;

The love He chose in life to share,

Gifts we honor . . . all too rare.

By R. Christopher