The Promise

Inspired by Wallace Stevens

The unholy frenzy of a three-week shopping spree

In single-minded pursuit of the consummate offering.

Some treasure that captivates my love, if only briefly,

Evoking blithe memories of Christmas past,

When Lionel trains, roller skates, and shiny Schwinn bicycles

Promised unadulterated pleasure.

But in this age of uncertainty and scrutiny,

The perfect gift feels like a seasonal illusion,

A practiced sleight of handThrough which we mime,

Hallmark-style,

The otherwise unspoken stirrings of the heart.

Undaunted, I set out in search of holiday treasure.

If such gifts exist at all, will they captivate again?

Clogged thoroughfares.

Rented Santas, rumpled and feigning cheer.

Perry Como jingles.

Nerves frayed by the discordant rhythms of the mall.

And my own insatiable Yuletide longings,

Coveting glittering bounty fit only for a king.

Seeking solace, solitary on Christmas night,

I retreat outdoors and lift my eyes to the heavens,

A shimmering veil of tears posing ancient questions:

Is it the star in the East that stirs my soul?

What did the traveling Wise Men divine in such stars?

I am reminded of a birth in Bethlehem, long ago,

A squalling mortal child, uniting God and Man,

Offering a glimmer of understanding.

Some Being, however intangible, delivered to us an idea,

An infinitude of love.

A mystery wholly reasoned through an infant form,

And through Him, a promise of divinity.

These are the gifts of the Wise Men:

Bequests of understanding, compassion, and grace,

Left for pagan pilgrims

In this most unholy season.

A spirit that returns each Yuletide,

Quietly, joyously.

As the miracle we call Christmas.

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