Season of the sun in its southern apogee,
days of opposites, of compensation.
Jingles bells and silent night,
while cash registers ring themselves
out of the red,
skeletal sycamore outside the window
in its requiem mass.
Spruce, lit and tinseled inside.
The glitz we insist upon
to propitiate the gods
against the dying of the light.
We gift wrap our eyes.
The fabled baby is born
within the manger of bulbs
on the wild desert floor.
Deck the halls to urge the sun.
Sondheim is still, here no more,
gone into his woods
dark and deep, no menorah
to answer the solstice.
Only by great exertion can those
in the hemisphere below
take our myth as theirs,
take on candles or White Christmas
dancing through the snow
in a one-horse heat of December summer
just like the ones they never knew.
As in the cycle of my life
I too take on a mind of winter,
barren on my inscape,
to hush the clamor.
Then overthrow the bonds,
ignite the fuse and rouse
the buds to burst.