Poet's Musings

A white angel, a black angel,

three black Santa Clauses. An angel

made of a toilet paper cylinder,

child's cardboard craft. Ornaments

made of beer-can aluminum,

glass ornaments from Aunt Nevada,

who loaded the mincemeat pie

with whiskey every year. A blue

sphere or two, survivors

from Christmases way-past

when Ma insisted on her blue tree

every year. A pink motorcycle,

a wooden elf who jumps

like a Cossack dancer

when you pull a string. A horse,

a cat, a crystal icicle. Red bird,

yellow bird, peacock. . . . This

is an annual reunion of ornaments,

who approve the minutes

from last year, chat while we're asleep,

stay cool with the LED lights

on an artificial tree;

who serve as metonyms

for clusters of nostalgia, loss,

and tattered joy. What about Jesus?

Well, he's there implicitly in

the eclectic hospitality.

hans ostrom 2023/2025

Sunday, November 30, 2025