That They Would Be Waiting There Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Red envelops of make believe
Rainbows while everyone else is turning around
In this carnival of their gospel
Looking up,
Counting the pinecones of the lips of all of
The stout young Christmas tress,
And expectant throughout all of those burnished
Holidays:
Waiting down on the raptures of puppies
And kittens:
The sky a quilt that our grandmother made,
And all of it made up and counting down
Throughout the maelstrom of another afternoon:
Bighting its lip
And trying to decide at what our to head out of
Doors,
While all of it happens out of this,
And the young virgins sing out of their pillows
As the snow piles up through the savage greenness of
Whatever houses that they have found;
And it all feels all right, burning through the thorough fairs,
Burning into the twice brilliant lamplights of the angels
Waiting beside the road: or twice over,
The angels that already swore that they would be waiting there.