Here’s my holiday card, a sonnet I wrote this morning. Though I’ve bastardized the form, I’m hoping it’s the sentiment that counts.
At this window on a high numbered floor,
cars seem pieces moved by a concealed hand.
The absent gates open, and cars lurch on,
onto the next gate closing with red light.
They’re like the days, marked by what awaits,
what’s passed—anticipation, forgetfulness
merged. We want the world to stop and it won’t.
Our days won’t abide such calm in these times.
Friday is Christmas. The occasion looms
and every box hides another gesture
intended to arrest our attention.
I wish each gift, if just for a moment,
could block our moving on. I pray for the hope
and peace our hearts—awaiting the day—still hold.