Displaced Yankees dream of gently falling snow that never turns to slush,
and wandering romeos often come home,
at least temporarily.

Telephone wires hum with long distance calls
between people who care about each other more in December,
which is better than not caring at all.

After-shave lotion is unwrapped with oohs and ahs,
toys are getting ready to be broken,
and puppies inhabit stockings.

Trees are always the most beautiful ever
if you just turn the bare side to the wall,
and eggs flow like nog.

Roaring hearths and good fellowship are for the very lucky,
but some will settle for a bag of groceries.

For certain people, this will be the first Christmas,
for others… the last.

“Merry Christmas” will be said in shacks,
castles, prisons, airplanes, battlefronts,
and churches.

No matter what we say is wrong with it,
Christmas is a time when many people are a little nicer…
and that’s something.

Jack Blanchard