Christmastime - a poem in prose

There's a chronic tension this time of year,
one that I've experienced my whole life long...
A sensibility,
a knowing,
that illumines my consciousness offering brief visions,
like the flashing of humming birds and the flitting of winter wrens.
Once here,
now gone.
I can barely behold it,
capturing only a glimpse of its gaiety,
before it disappears into an airy rubble of emptiness.

Cravenly,
I want to float on the season's cheery promises
found in singing of carols,
chiming of bells and flickering of candles.
Where is this holy tide of Christmas
that ushers in great comfort and joy?
What do glad tidings tell
of wisdom from on high?

I experience a chronic tension this time of year...
A longing for a perfect and complete love.
No disregard, disappointment or dissatisfaction.
Only a desire to love and to be loved.

I have a sense of blessed notions
nestled in Christmastime.
Searching for the perfect gift,
exchanging tangibles,
a symbolic substitute for unselfishly offering myself.
A chronic tension that hides my longing
for supple assurance,
a pliable notion of belonging,
filled with a satiny warmth of security.
My heart faintly assembles
the valiant idea of peace
prevailing among nations.
Enemies?
None.
Friends?
All.
This hope summons something deep down inside.
It's a holy season, this Christmastime,
locating my soul,
working ever so hard
to satisfy my spiritual hunger,
a craving.

There's a chronic tension this time of year,
one I've been wrestling with my whole life long...
A sensibility,
a knowing that briefly brightens my consciousness,
like the flashing of humming birds
and the flitting of winter wrens.
It was right here,
now gone.
I capture only a glimpse of its gaiety,
before it disappears into an airy rubble of emptiness.

A perfect peace? A perfect love? Where?
2010 © Copyright Paula Damon.