Black Friday opened up
before Halloween this year,
and the customary counselors are predicting
drastic shortages, delays and empty shelves.
The supply chain appears to be untethered –
loaded ships lying off the coast at anchor,
idled drivers, vacant trucks holding in line –
impending crisis, once again, is all the news.
Yet my Christmas list stays calmly unimperiled.
One festive meal with folk whose company
I have come to cherish over years.
One dog-directed stroll along the shore,
or down a snow-edged forest trail.
One open fireside with warm slippers,
a chair that tilts me backward when desired,
and a book I know so well the plot flows,
slow and easy into slumber.
A generous mug, or glass, to sip on,
welcome voice and touch when I awake.
At the close, a holy space of choir and candles,
ancient words of grace and comfort,
merry greetings, mending peace.
Shopping days ‘til Christmas — A poem
