Eight days the light continued on its own: A miracle, they say, but not more so Than ordinary lives of flesh and bone, Consuming wicks burned ashen long ago.

...A fuel-less flame is nothing but a wraith, However wrought, if unsustained by passion.

Christmas is a time of little time. How we get there is a mystery. Racing madly mall-to-mall, we climb Into fields of sunlit harmony. Shopping, cooking, clearing walks and yards, Trimming house and tree while working, too Making phone calls, wrapping, writing cards, As all worn out we do what we must do So that this day of joy might joy renew.

Sixty years is cause enough to sing In celebration of a gentle life! To the mother and the wife, Taking pleasure in what love might bring, Yearning for what's worth the treasuring.

Given angel's wings, where might you fly? In what sweet heaven might you find your love? Unwilling to be bound, where might you move, Lost between the wonder and the why?

Angels are quite ample cause to cry.

On Hanukkah, the first dark night, Light yourself a candle bright. I'll you, if you will me invite To dance within that gentle light.

December finds himself again a child Even as he undergoes his age. Cold and early darkness now descends, Embracing sanctuaries of delight. More and more he stares into the night, Becoming less and less concerned with ends, Emblem of the innocent as sage Restored to wonder by what he must yield.

As spirits roam the neighborhoods at night, Let loose upon the Earth till it be light.

Hobgoblins know the proper way to dance: Arms akimbo, loopy legs askew, Leaping into darkness with delight, Lusting for the ecstasy of fright, Open to the charm of horrors new.