Rehabilitation
Every time John Bull brings the holly
Out of the woods
I go where my poinsettias grow merrily
To see the fire glows
Red like blood in leaves defying
The winter's coming and the cold
Every time a spruce, pine or willow
Is cut down to carry shards of sun
Or rewrite the history of the cross
I wander from home with heavy sighing
Torn up by the forest lost
To keep its pride each winter's blast
And I go the rocks to see below
The sea's white fury crash
In scowling anger
Sweeter than the bells jingling by stores
The carols mingling
Love with trade and vanity
I want something more
A little purer than all commerce creed
I want the scent of sorrel dripping
From the kitchen's eave
The baker's barters stirring
And the old katacu smoking
The prepared fish and meat
O not for the feast as you supposed
But for mother's presence
In the first season of her absence
She hung poinsettias
And brew and roast and bake
While she sorted drapes and curtains out
And sang the alto happy carols
As she designated us to our task
Ah Christmas was her presence here
Nothing more
I go to the shore to give my wounded soul some rest
While parching for the milk of happiness
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