where shadows crossed, where such tall houses leaned
like drunks, whose doors spilled tea-steam into dung
where horses clomped and paused, their bells at peace
that brought on silence like a Christmas scene
through windows wreathed with spurious drifts of snow
through curtains fringed with an electric light
of Yules that blazed eternal on black tape
wound back to spools like thread that brings to mind
the knitting needles and the crochet hooks
that crossed and crossed until the slow-made shapes
were born, each an epiphany, and yet
those scarves would never drape a grandchild's neck
though everyone pretended and were glad
to be so blest there, where the shadows crossed
like drunks, whose doors spilled tea-steam into dung
where horses clomped and paused, their bells at peace
that brought on silence like a Christmas scene
through windows wreathed with spurious drifts of snow
through curtains fringed with an electric light
of Yules that blazed eternal on black tape
wound back to spools like thread that brings to mind
the knitting needles and the crochet hooks
that crossed and crossed until the slow-made shapes
were born, each an epiphany, and yet
those scarves would never drape a grandchild's neck
though everyone pretended and were glad
to be so blest there, where the shadows crossed
