In this mild mid-winter breeze of splintered selves

The trees blend into silhouttes; and I see elves

Whose shadows transform perceptions

Into creation. And all the world of

Getting and spending grinds to a halt,

For 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 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 self?

Grinding me into the narrow confines of convention

And, yet, freeing me to expand into these mothers of invention.