Who Knows The Heralding I Have Heard

the christmas light excursions of my past

are myriad and glistening though

there's no one left listening to

my Christmas stock overload of so much twinkling

who knows the heralding I have heard

with all my Christmas ghosts

when it seemed to me in sleep, the most, the stars

chimed like crystal and the sweep of the wind was silver.

still I take comfort as with cherry cordial chocolates

songs of the Magi, dusky and deep

in the fact I know I was there then

I remember the feeling of orange and peppermint together

the uncertainty of weather clear blue and crackling the

icicles on the roof like stalactites, our very own.

I remember home. as no one else now can

how the lamplight looked when you were just outside the door

waiting to go in and stamping your feet (we were like small reindeer 

then)

as if the moon had melted there and was content

with the scent of pine or fir decked out.

how could Heaven be more real

than the least flake of red or gold off all that Time

could hold bursting to be told but to whom to whom

I'll say it to the baby in the manger still

to the creche with straw on its floor

who will know before I speak

all that I feel

all that I felt then.

and that I still whisper when Im too overwhelmed to sing

Oh Come. now as then.

let us adore Him.

mary angela douglas 2 november 2020