The Forests Of Christmas Poem by Robert Rorabeck

They loom so emboldened as all of the horses
Come in—
Off to the right, they burn tires until the smoke
Gets too much:
I wonder if any one of them is my father,
Or if I will find myself encrusted on the back of
Some fine snake like camouflage underneath
A fable—
The children will come to school tomorrow with their
Shoulders hung over—
They will greet me, recording together
And they will tell each other fairytales of their own
Mothers
Until it all seems to become impossible and
We fall to sleep together underneath the forests of
Christmas.