For those who can deny the malls,
and flying footballs on the screen,
there lies, tucked in between the feasting
and those first December days,
a blessed intermission, several hours,
at least, when nothing must be done,
perhaps a little clean-up time,
the daily paper to be read, for once,
from front to back, a walk through woods
or city streets, no matter where,
don’t hurry, find a way to see,
a fire to build with branches, log
and flame, then fall asleep beside,
a child – yours or your child’s child –
to forget time with in play that is
as old as time itself. These,
and a wealth of easy open moments,
wait within the unclaimed hours
of these rarely gifted,
all but holy days.
— J. Barrie Shepherd
