a christmas poem

Christmas is a place, like Jackson Hole, where all agree

To meet once a year. It has water, and grass for horses;

All the fur traders can come in. We visited the place

As children, but we never heard the good stories.

Those stories only get told in the big tents, late

At night, when a trapper who has been caught

In his own trap, held down in icy water, talks; and a man

With a ponytail and a limp comes in from the edge of the fire.

As children we knew there was more to it—

Why some men got drunk on Christmas Eve

Wasn't explained, nor why we were so often 

Near tears nor why the stars came down so close,

Why so much was lost. Those men and women

Who had died in wars started by others,

Did they come that night? Is that why the Christmas tree

Trembled just before we opened the presents?

There was something about angels. Angels we

Have heard on high Sweetly singing o'er 

The plain. The angels were certain. But we could not

Be certain whether our family was worthy tonight.

~ Robert Bly

from Morning Poems