Christmas Story

We children on Christmas morning
beside the tree
heard my father read aloud the Christmas story
and I believed.

Now that I’m older
and nearer the end of my life,
what I hear is time
and frustration at unfilled desire.

A child is comfortable with wonder.
Adults suspect.
A promise not kept is betrayal.
In the cold, I clutch
and hold close my tattered belief.

The choirs I hear
sharp and clear in the white frosty air.
In their breath I see
the evidence of ephemeral life.

Wind cuts at belief like a knife.
The result is grim.
Heaven being so far above,
Hell’s what I’m in.

I can hear the voice of a child
and the child is calling
for a mother who will never be found,
not this Christmas morning!