Member Poem

O Holy Night

Chickory, birdsfoot,
Indian's paintbrush
edge our roads, waving:
like children,
cheering a parade

You and your brother
swing silver fire-lanterns,
heads almost touching, you
whisper of cousins and far-away friends

You walk ahead of me,
just enough to
pretend you walk alone

You spin your glassed fire,
make stars dance under your feet
as well as above this street-stage

You are afraid of nothing

You are not yet too old
to gasp at bats passing overhead,
to salute the groundhog, grass across his mouth
like a handlebar mustache,
to adorn your arms in ladybugs

Fireflies swarm you tonight
to see if you are one of them

I think you may well be

I am trying
so hard
to make this night last

First appeared in Poppy Road Review.