Really, its just a lunch bag, small, brown
crumpled at the top or folded neatly in a cuff
with some sand and a candle, small vanilla
votive or tea light, lit and placed on the front walk
beside a hundred more just the same.
Depending on the story, they either guide the faithful
to midnight mass on Christmas eve, or lead the weary couple,
Christ heavy in her belly, to a place of rest.
But tonight they are magical, camp fire in a bag,
a hundred campfires ringing the street, warming
the bitter night, the frostbitten dark that tries so hard
to envelope us. Perhaps we can stay in this place,
you and I, no tomorrows, no mistakes that take you
from me, just this moment, the flames dancing
as the wind surges, the whole world welcoming
the outcast and downtrodden, the face I love so much
lit by this temporary fire. |