We have had our dog Decembers,
in the land of the Midlantic people,
muddy water wending its way
to the languid Bay.
December darkness crouching, an alley cat
malingering with clouds
that choke the blessed sun
while short daytime hours run.
Humid Floridian billows confound
the narrative: Santa in a sweat?
Eggnog can turn in this; missletoe wilt;
Ice-rinks can melt.
A dog of a Christmas, rainy like
Good Friday should be. Way too warm
for mulled cider. Too muggy
for a sleigh.
Christmas lights in a haze.
December like they had in moonlit
Bethlehem. Foggy, too. Dank and tepid.
City resistant to organization, dotted with caves.
Unlit December days plodding unmarked
towards the Purim moon. Night swallowing up time,
lamps burning unevenly. Donkey traffic.
As magical as dung. Don’t bother
pulling out your phone.
Nothing sparkles here for facebook.
But the fact remains.
Donner and Blitzen can go to the devil.
The fact remains.
The birth in stable dirt
that bridges every muddy ravine.