Holidays predate the dawn of
A time before time started on its road,
Perambulating forward, always forward,
Perpetually ignorant of the end.
Yet once they were with great precision drawn,
Having been both calendar and ode,
Of a time when time went ever toward,
Lilting round each long-familiar bend.
In our time, they're used mostly to adorn
Days not strong enough to bear the load --
A dinner, store-bought gifts, an ancient word,
Yet nothing that would help one comprehend
Such joy as long ago was life's
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon