Misty Christmas

confounding our image-driven idea of

what this holiday

should be.

Clammy, bone-chilling fog,

obscuring,

mystifying mist, blinding cloud

coming down .

Wrapping a scarf, buttoning a coat,

pulling a cap down over the eyes.

The chilly fog fingers insinuating themselves,

Looking up and out from the little parapet,

searching for the settled dome, the solid curve

overhead.

Crackers and Santa Clause and plum pudding

all submerged in a flighty, uncalled-for

cloud of winter fog.

Will choirs surrender to it?  The notes

smothered,

melodies tangled in the soft white

cold nothing of mist.

Misty Christmas, welcome  mist,

swaddling us, binding us in mystery.