Here I sit
nary a gift
besides this present 
and this present 
is by far 
the grandest gift 
for it means 
very little else 

Life is like 
a book many
pages have been 
read with many
more to come 
before you’re finished 
but the only 
one that you 
can read and 
that really matters 
is the one 
which is open 

Fireplace is lit
its warming moves 
closer to me 
coffee in hand 
out you come 
rubbing your eyes 
of their sleep
on your sleeve 
sitting down and 
curling deeply in 
as I pour
and you sip
this our next 
Merry Christmas morning 

As oar is 
to water is
to boat so
are you to
life are you 
to me that
which moves me 
as sail is
to wind is
to journey so
are you to 
adventure are you 
to conquering me 
and as shore
is to start
is to end
so are you 
to us are
you to me 

Clothes neatly folded 
a few tossed
just litter discarded 
picked up later
as an afterthought 
or battlefield corpses
given life defending 
lost to lust
or to sleep 
me I am 
the one who 
picks up remembering 
I then am
your own memorial 
bearing such witness