The lights are on. This year no one can miss
the way, our windows’ radiant welcoming
and glow of stored-up heat. We’re waiting—tinsel,
tree, a wealth of holly, candles and the scent
of pine cones by the fire. We’ll all fit in
like jigsaw pieces—sleeping bags and cots,
a cake and crackers (awful jokes!), new lists
of who-eats-what so everyone is fed—
and royally. Let’s do what we do best:
games—playing, losing—making up; squealing
when gifts delight; and sharing round the love;
recalling other times (and who was there),
laying down layers of future memories;
and telling all our stories, all of us.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, D.A.
Prince would be pleased to hear them.