But unstill, unsilent,
the family gathered,
the friends invited —
food, drink, stories and laughter —
children off watching the classic movies
or locked in virtual bloody battle;
perhaps there is one curled in a corner
lost in the silent commotion of a book.
Home for the holidays,
at all costs we set aside
this week; these two weeks
for a pilgrimage —
whether we travel or not —
to a land other than
our workaday world
to celebrate and remember
our own form of yuletide,
our personal blessed event.
Even the “chosen” sleepwalk
through the unspoken,
It is to the shepherds, outcasts of their day,
and to foreigners, far afield, drawn
by who knows what and who knows why,
that this night speaks and has spoken.
* * *
A tad late. But there it is.