My place atop the Christmas tree may seem a lofty place for me, but humbly, I point down below through greenery and lights aglow to manger scene that holds the Christ who paid the price in sacrifice for every woman, man, and child – this perfect Lamb – this undefiled Rescuer, Redeemer, God I represent, and richly laud.
Written in response to Walt Wojtanik’s prompt at Poetic Bloomings to write about Christmas from the point of view of an inanimate object.If you look closely, you can see the cross that tops my Christmas tree.
In the midst of war (and there is always a war) lies grim misjudging. Fear of difference. Insatiable greed for land. Resolute loathing. Dire false impressions. Grave miscommunications.
And a common moon.
And beneath that moon, in God’s perfect alignment, is home to us all. We’ve food and water (if only we’d gladly share), great plains and mountains, celebrated seas with unfathomably large communal mammals. With microscopic yet astoundingly complex sentient beings. Sands God has numbered stay in place as our home spins, not spilling a drop of the vast waters that both adorn and provide, beautify and quench.
And though we do not tend to her needs (let alone the needs of “others”), God gave us this home brilliantly placed beneath the moon of His choosing, populated with children He chooses to love. (There are no “others.”}
We humans tend to look back, often having trouble reconciling the life we live with the life we naively dreamed of in the midst of youth, mulling the likelihood that the land of our reality borders our kingdom of what ifs.
The #waltmarie, created by Candace Kubinec, is a 10-line form of any subject. The even-numbered lines are 2 syllables, and must form their own poem when read separately. The odd-numbered lines are longer, with no syllable count restrictions.
We walk around the park’s pond, eyeing mallards and geese, clear blue skies. Tree blossoms of white, pink, and purple dapple sunlight on the greening grass and manmade path at our feet.
Lilacs scent the breeze, as does the pleasing sound of improving English from my brave and delightful friend. She speaks of her sweet/smart girls, (the youngest of which, with her large dark eyes and dark golden curls, holds tight her momma’s hand, and her little bag of chips), Syrian war, and lost and scattered family.