In this mild mid-winter of splintered selves
Trees blend into silhouttes; and I see the elves
Whose shadows transformed perceptions
For milleniums into creation. And all the world of
Getting and spending grinds to a halt,
For this one holy day. Death may be far away or near
At hand, we have no crystal balls. We must put
All our heart and soul into conveying the simplicity of love
To those lying bereft of love, suffering near on a far-shore 
Wondering what is life for? Why do the wicked prosper?
Why do all my actions end in the suicide of my only friend?
Seemingly grinding me into the narrow confines of convention
And, yet, freeing me to expand into all these mothers of invention.

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