A Twenty-Eleven Christmas Verse

Twenty-eleven had me fooled  -
barely begun, it suddenly Yuled
leaving me wondering, “Why, why, why
did the Year of the Rabbit so swiftly fly?
Nothing much happened to me, myself.”

In contrast, it seemed the world outside
was ripped apart. Jack Layton died
right after he captured the position
of Leader of Canada’s Opposition.
A media feast of stunning events
of which we had no time to make sense
was dinned in our ears out of Tahrir Square,
Norway, Libya and elsewhere.
Earthquakes, tusnamis - what next was coming?
The total effect added up to: numbing.

“I’m thinking of doing a Christmas letter,”
I mentioned to a passing elf.
“A poem,” he said, would be much better!”
explicitly dreading a tedious dose
of proudly pompous purple prose
all about boring family biz,
and just how amazing everyone is.
This verse has thus been commissioned for you
by the elf, a.k.a. my brother Hugh.

I find I quite like family news
from families much like mine, or Hugh’s.
The Christmas letters in my mailbox
have spared me from earth-shaking shocks.
This year I’ve noticed welcome trends
by relatives and by bardical friends,
who present their year, without undue chatter,
like simple fare on a homemade platter.

Patterns apply, but experiences vary,
from Linda and Gary to Eric and Mary.
Entrances, exits by near and dear
mark the passing of every year.
We cannot remain in the selfsame grooves
as life brings changes, and many moves.

Peter sold his house, but I didn’t sell mine.
I was glad it was there, all cleared of clutter,
its walls renewed with a sunny shine,
when I moved back in without a mutter
after a stay in Springdale Park,
with its glorious canopy after dark
when the stars reveal their far-flung lights,
and the daylit woods abound in delights -
like the deer skull Eloïse “showed and told”
and mushrooms worth their weight in gold.

While I was admiring a northern sky,
Peter and Carol found, close by,
their Toronto condo, and moved right in.
Eric survived a scary spin
into an icy Muskoka lake,
and now he’s learning how to bake
batches of cookies, as Dad-at-home,
while I concoct this rambling pome.

He lost, too early, his dear Aunt Tina,
whom everyone loved who’d ever seen her,
while Carol’s mother passed away
in Virginia, I am sad to say.

Newly arrived at Mary’s place
is Cadmon, a doguess with bouncy grace,
and a delicate way of dismantling Lego,
selectively deaf to commands of, “Let go!”

Young Kate Allen is bound to go far,
newly recruited by the Star,
while Mary in Markham immerses Grade Two
in her trademark French. At a “petting zoo”
her own kids found instruments fun to play.
Christmas will be a crazy day
of multiple music and rafts and rafts
of colourful presents, created as crafts.

Linda’s been living her Thoreau thing
on a ten-acre chunk of Adirondack.
She and Gary winter in town till spring.
When wild flowers bloom, they will be back
in their rustic rural greenery base
with squads of squirrels for Sadie to chase.

I’ve run out of fuel, and so will close
this bulletin, where snows are no-shows.
Never mind! I wish you a fabulous Fête,
and a New Year more blessed than ever yet.

Love,
Helen

First Christmas for a child born in May