Poets’ Corner: Rosemerry for Christmas!

22 Dec Poets’ Corner: Rosemerry for Christmas!

Quoting the dearly beloved showman Garrison Keillor: “A lovely thing about Christmas is that it’s compulsory, like a thunderstorm, and we all go though it together.” That said and for those who have experienced loss – with apologies to “Carousel” – when you walk through this particular storm, holding your head up high is not easy. Neither is capturing heartbreak in words. Unless you are Word Woman Rosemerry Trommer. For her, for all of us really, every Christmas is a palimpsest for the one that came before and the one before and so on back. Memories of Xmases past are as persistent as Santa myths. Read on and be grateful if your memories shine as brightly as the ornaments on your tree. And/or be grateful for the grace with which Rosemerry shares her heart in three beautiful poems, as follows.

Leaning in to Paradox

Tonight your sister and I
frosted the sugar cookies—
all the same shapes you’d remember:
stars and wreaths, angels and trees,
gingerbread men and sheep.
We made a rabbit into a Santa
and four gingerbread men
into Spider Man, complete
with red boots and large white eyes
and spiders on their chests.
And we laughed, deep muscled currents
of laughter. And I missed you.
Strange how even the happiest moments
are thirsty. Because of course
you are here in the red and green frosting,
here in the sweet mindless chatter,
here in the communion of sweet dough
and carols, and not here
in the chair beside me. There is
a calculus of thirst—the study
of continuous change in which
loving you is the constant.
This is the work of my life—
to love what is here, to love
what is not, and to learn how thirst,
too, is a tribute to the river.

Meeting the Holidays

They mean well, of course,
the people who say things
such as, The holidays are hard.

And they’re right. Like not hanging
the blue stocking on the fireplace.
Like not needing to hide the red hots

because there is no one who will steal them.
But these moments are no more difficult
than a Tuesday. No more heartbreaking

than two weeks ago when
my son did not chastise me
for not clicking my heels

before I pulled my snowy feet into the car.
Firsts are hard, people say.
But, sometimes, I notice,

it’s the second that’s harder.
Or the third. Or it’s just all hard.
Or, miraculously, it’s not hard at all.

I am learning to translate
anything anyone says as,
I am holding your heart in mine.

I am learning to meet every day
as a holy day full of sacrifice,
grace and invitation. I am learning

grief is so different for each of us—
sometimes showing up as closed sign
at the door of the inn. Sometimes

showing up as an angel with a message
we can barely understand. Sometimes
showing up as a king with a strange

and fragrant gift reminiscent of sorrowing,
sighing—though it’s woody and warm,
and feels important, perhaps, even wondrous.

On Christmas Eve

On the doorsill,
left without a knock,
was a very small bag
with a big silver bow.
Inside was a jam jar
with a red gingham cap
filled with homemade confetti,
Its thin red label said:
Christmas magic,
just sprinkle.

And it’s that simple:
a bit of bright paper
cut into tiny squares
and the true love of a friend,
and I am awash with magic,
baptized by tears of devotion
and wonder, marvel
and memory, loss
and hope and gratitude.

Let the jars we are
be vessels for love.
May we be certain
that whatever we carry inside us,
we are capable of real magic—
the kind that flings open
the heart of another
and lets wild joy rush in.
The kind that turns words into wine. The kind
that takes a gray rainy day
stained with grief and sickness
and turns it into
Christmas.