And, in doing so, I was reminded of a poem I wrote this time last year:
On the twelfth day of Christmas the wise men come to call,
And she lays the baby Jesus in bubble-wrap, crib and all,
Switching off the lights, she takes the bare tree down,
The wise men stand and watch, on their faces a frown;
Gifts are discarded and the tinsel is packed,
And she wonders why Christmas always ends with this final act.
Is this now our epiphany: that the Christ can be packed away,
Sealed in a box, hidden in the attic for another day?
After such a long journey, did the faithfully shining light,
Simply just vanish or get extinguished by the night?
As she looks to the future and ponders the past,
She finds herself longing for a hope that will last.
So on the twelfth day of Christmas the wise men come to show,
To all seeking a home, the safest way they know.
