December Poem by James Papastamos

Sunrise shoots...its
genuine brilliance onto the
unsuspecting sky, as the
silver moon, gray with antiquity,
crying but almost death-defying,
begins to release its dying hold
on time itself.

Gentle flakes of snow, as yet
untouchable, as seasoned virgins, no doubt,
dance with such promiscuity, and thus
await their deliverance onto
hallowed ground that is
moist with anxiety, anxiously
anticipating their arrival,
if not second coming.

Angels sound their presence, as
echoes resound with living God.
His vibrations molest the chill morning air,
oh, the godless winter air,
with much promise, if not
premonition of great things to come.

Time holds its breath. The air,
untouchable, perhaps immovable,
somehow impenetrable, willingly
surrenders its aimless objectivity,
directing Joseph and Mary with a
single breath...a callous wind that
weeps with joy.

Time advances its mighty hand
across December's frozen tundra...its days
forced to dutifully drag every second...
minute, if not hour, as God so
characterizes the month of December
with summer joy, upon the glorious
birth of its native child.