In existential Christmas angst
we scramble ‘round
up and down hills
spilling into
rivers of remembrance
and regret
wishing for storms
and a blanketing
of bright light white snow
with a warm cold
just before the year returns
to where it came from-
the pseudo place
that no one knows
where every thing manifests
never resting
coming and going at the same time
locking us all
into
an ancient Christmas time rhyme