© 2015 Barbara Grace Lake
If ever I’m asked to divulge my belief
On matters some feel is a seasonal grief
(For others an annual sacred obsession)
I offer what follows to be my confession:
That Christmas comes fleetingly once in a year
And wonders in magic performs while it’s here.
To this I’ll audaciously always agree,
Though often I swear ’twill impoverish me.
I send many missives to all those most dear
With jolly old Santa’s abounding good cheer.
While we know one and all this vivànt, this esprit
This aura of warmly convivial glee
Is a wraith that arrives and departs with the Season
Still not to send greetings is kin to high treason.
Indulging a frenzy of mad prodigality
Depleting my funds in the saddest totality,
I’ve managed to spend as I fervently vowed
Would never again be so rashly allowed
Buying cards all too many–’twas only a portion,
The stamp vendor joyfully ransomed a fortune.
But recklessly names I keep adding at random
(Those friends made this year in such happy abandon)
To frightening lists I’ll peruse once again
Lest one might be missed and I rudely offend
A dear one or relative’s fine sensitivity
Within this traditional time of festivity.
Expenses aside, the most harrying part
I’ve delayed several weeks hoping never to start.
I’m resolved to complete the impossible chore,
To be finished by morning–or even before,
Of signing and stamping, then licking, adhering
Till eyes blur unfocused, dark circles appearing.
As midnight exhaustion leaves reason behind
In shambles, it can’t be surprising to find
My hearing reduced to insensible jumble?
Did I really hear my own voice barely mumble?
Could I in my torment have honestly said,
“To hell with it all — I’m going to bed!”?