A River Of Blackbirds: A Christmas Poem

There were no decorations,

No carolers in the snow,

No presents and no Christmas tree,

No berries or mistletoe.

But the cold and dark were there that early winter morn.

We stood in an empty parking lot,

Tired and worn.

The state of her health we'd know in hours.

We talked about the tests as our coffee stopped being warm and the dark set in the west.

How are we doing Christmas?

Neither of us asked.

The weeks and months that stood ahead,

Well,

They are the bigger tasks.

We didn't have it in us to conjure joy or cheer.

We lost it in the fighting just to make it here.

Then her face erupted in the most delirious smile.

I panicked,

Seeing nothing.

She was gazing across the miles.

First her memory,

Then her speech,

Now she sees what isn't there.

But she grabbed my arm and told me to look,

Far in the western air.

I've never seen so many.

What do you suppose it means?

She marveled at their numbers as they glided and careened,

A river of blackbirds tens of thousands at least,

My best friend's face glowing from the sun in the east.

It wasn't going to be okay,

Not by what we used to know.

Fewer presents,

Less time spent in the snow.

But Christmas this year will still arrive.

Something will still be alright.

Over on the wings of blackest dark rides redeeming light.