We owe everything to those we love
but are indebted to hate, like heat.
Santa and snow both work for Jesus, seasonally,
so the gifts come in mysterious ways, occasionally.
How will snow fall? Slowly, or devouring year-around beauty,
only noticing a bland white world on the way to work.
How will gifts arrive? One-by-one, or all through the roof?
How will I die? In a million pieces, or in a one old shell?
You wait for Santa, or salvation, or snow, just to wait
until you’re old enough to know waiting is all we want.
But you can always laugh at butthole-shaped snowflakes.
And if they never fall, you can die knowing
with luck, we’ve lived to when we can remember
what never was—
What we never were: things of beauty,
angels singing to the newborn king.