There are few absolutes.
Even less that speak as true,
To the golden hues of bygone ages
Or savage whirlpools of our youth.
We were born and we shall die
Shackled to these certainties
Eternal pirouettes of life.
Yet in the doubt we are alive,
A parable of the possible,
The probable or the just might.
Existence in the absence
Between two points of light.
In the uncertain we survive,
A ripple in the darkness,
A dream within the night.

The stockings were hung,
but they fell off the wall,
The tree was so crooked,
it threatened to fall.
The cookies for Santa
got burnt to a crisp,
and Grandpa was snoring
with quite a loud lisp.

The cat ate the tinsel
and their whiskers did glow,
while reindeer-shaped lights
blinked sporadic and slow.
The wrapping paper ran out
halfway through,
so presents got covered
in the old Daily News.

But Christmas still came
with its usual cheer,
despite all the chaos
and Dad's missing beard.
For love and good spirits
cannot be undone,
by festive mishaps
and misguided fun.

©️Lizzie Bevis

Stately, headless form,
profound with life, she endures—
stone defies time's hand.

Pregnant with the stars,
prosperity flows through her,
silent, yet so vast.

Temple's sacred core,
sea and stars weave her wisdom—
eternal she stands.