I remember Christmas sure as Sundays,
Sure as buds that jumped from cradle branches
To the bed of grass below, billowed with the breath of spring:
And on that pungent grass we’d lay, a twinkle in our eyes,
A tingle in our fingertips, while hearth-baked breads
Grew hot and cracklin’ gold in grandma’s yellow
Kitchen; as the sun’s lids sagged and
Squirrels nested at the foot of oaks;
When bedtime stirred as dreams
Borne upon the wings of fireflies—
I remember Christmas, sure, but
I remember spring more fondly
Than heaven’s child who stole
A season for eternity.