Its that cold again.

That winter.

That christmas.

While the wishes I have in my mind linger

I stop to imagine the timeframe where material, touch, and feel

Are irrelevant.

I try to grasp and control my benevolence

So as not to join in on the usuals, peculiars

Routines they are.

Christmas, not for religion-but for the living.

"Life loving the liver of it."

Christmas, not for gifts-but for the gratitude of beings.

For the appreciation of seeing, and, walking, and talking.

Remembering

Christmas is not for short instances of affection but for the reception of harnessing

love.

I will stand to bend to lay to dream and imagine my mind free from proof

Of any and everything tradition.

I will say to speak to voice to preach how loneliness has guided me through.

Towards the real I exist with.

Christmas has one purpose.

Thankfulness.

finding it.

There's a feeling you'll receive, in light of the moment.

You have your time, your chance to show it.

They'll take your arm and guide you 'round and give you things

That love has found.

Time speeds your walk, kisses ease your gaze

Hands soothe your wounds, life has its ways.

Two times a lay

A ways away

But still come back to seize the day.

Bright skies of dawn and sunny corn fields

Make many grow weak from love to yield.

You'll bend your knee and jump your broom

You thank your God for loving you.

Provide you with the half of whole

The best of beings

Your body's soul.