The Patriarch

Father Christmas remembers (in spite of frostbite)
not to slouch in the company of guests.
But stiff upper lip or none,
In the eyes of Rangifer tarandus,
he’ll always be the upstandingest citizen.
So what if he was forever polarizing the elvish?

Fragmented skin notwithstanding, he’s no Humpty Dumpty.
Spanning multiple literary genres isn’t easy, you know.
But standing out in the cold does take its toll.
Bells, stiff and cracked, ring on, and we don’t mind so much.
We’ve got our tangerines and tambourines.
What other ushers of peace and joy need we, save these?

Summon what you will from Christmas fog: that’s your pierogie, Tiff.
But, synthetic swaddling aside, the stable story’s still a stable story.
Save a few manger-bug bites, baby Jesus came through alright.
Plastic or not, we still imagine angel choruses aswirl overhead.
And for every graven aged patriarch at the head of a table,
there’s still the promise of a newborn Child.

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