when you get bad news just before christmas

When you get bad news just before Christmas
by troy cady


We draw our
flowerless
drapes
these days
at an earlier hour.

We bade
fare
well to
yes
ter
day
like an old friend;
powerless,
we did not want this to end.

Four days before Christmas,
dusk is like
a premature child;
he comes too
soon,
bringing wild
death.

We cope
(or hope)
with lights
inside.

Break out the soft blankets
suitable for snuggling secure on the sofa.

Peek through the drapes
when there is no doubt
it will be
oilspill-black out
side--

discover (!)

the snow falling thick this night;
the large flakes are atoms of sunlight;
the mighty sun-God broke himself right
into tiny
fleeced pieces;

(!)

see Him
thrown float
ing down,
settling even
into the muddy pothole
on the street
near my home.

Later, He will be crushed,
packed dirty down there.
And melt.

But the ground
is
bright now.
Neither plow

nor shovel.
Let it rest and go out
frownless

walking in it.

Recollect every snowflake;
behold the endless variety.

Boots: meet infinity.

Heels: make an imprint on God,
slide on top of Him.

Servant Snow: wash my feet;
do not dry them with the towel.

You do not need to see the sidewalk;
just walk and whistle

a carol,
but not the joyful sort,
lest hypocrisy insinuate
like an icy draught under the door.

No, hum a longing song,
borrowed from sorrow,
and know
you are not alone.

Then, remember, the late-sun day
will come
(hear the distant drum?)
soon enough
and you will run stronger,
the drapes
drawn long
er

no longer.

This summer
the child will be overdue
but strong,
alive
and new.

In the mean time,
in the mean time,
in the mean time,
have a cup of hot cider;
abide awhile
after a long walk in Christ

and Christ’s mass.




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