You seldom see them from year to year

but their stars shine bright on a midnight clear,

after the autumn leaves have dropped

on this winter solstice when flames are flaring

it's the time again for caring. 

 

So just as last year and the year before

you find a name, an address in a book,

write a card of fantasy,

then like a paper dart you cast if off to find

the statutory statue of the letterbox

that stands red hands in pockets with the cold 

that stands and delivers the card

that lands upon a mat somewhere

with perennial thoughts of Christmas cheer. 

 

Such is the ritual state of mind that

you hope your gesture will be returned

your memory not be left behind.