Christmas is for lovers, acquired too late,
For showing moons in secret skies,
Found by those who crave mysteries
parenthesized by home
Christmas makes the lonely less,
the lonely more, with spangled friends;
a tree as hope.
For mourners who must attend to rigid tears.
For lives to refresh
or perhaps condone.
For those who are willful and wasteful,
parallel to grief.
For happy minutiae with repeated stories
of dreams made true ---
Christmas can inhabit a replenished star
To illuminate an option;
the hidden center of
who we are.