by John Zedolik
Snow on Christmas Eve is only silent sugar-dust of grace, as light and gentle as mother’s lace,
no threat to life tires into hallowed space and the bodies hurtling in the same narrow trace,
even after missi sumus into the early hours of the Natal Day, still dark, well ahead of the Son’s warming
Sol that will dispel any fear of post-solstice slip that might crumple and mar the Holy Day’s cheer of each
humble crèche within its hoped-for timbers and held fire that will keep out the wind, night, and cold—
unwelcome and unauthorized —flatly impermissible—upon this Eve and Morn where a certain Star’s
singe and shimmer guarantees the rubber will embrace the road between the candled church and slumber in the safe abode.