My neighbor, the resident lumiphile,

fancies himself the Beacon of Christmas,

his house dripping with icicle lights,

effigies of Santas and snowmen, backlit, inflated,

like overstuffed sentinels in the yard.

Rudolph on the roof, elves in the eaves,

luminescent candy canes sprouting up from the snow,

and bare trees spiderwebbed with motion lights.

My youngest asks why we don’t have Christmas spirit,

like the Conners.

Seven-year-olds don’t understand “understated.”

We keep a single candle, electric, in each window,

each candle dressed with a simple red bow.

Twenty windows, twenty candles, twenty bows.

I don’t measure spirit in wattage.

Candles were in windows long before plastic Santas.

I’d like to think my lights recall snowy Christmas Eves

when candles welcomed weary travelers to country inns,

with promises of good food, drink, and a warm, dry bed,

or the Christmas Eve even longer ago,

when the only light that mattered

came from a single star.

12/17/2003

Posted on 12/18/2003
Copyright © 2024 Bruce W Niedt