Christmas in California: a poem


Illustrated by EMILY MIYAOKA

Illustrated by EMILY MIYAOKA
Illustrated by EMILY MIYAOKA

Once I lived in a magical place
where winter took over my body and face.
The world – in its beauty – was nothing but still
with bright snow on every last mountain and hill.

And life was a game between warmth and the cold.
My fingers were soothed by the cider I’d hold.
My pink nose and cheeks were a sight to admire,
and my toesies defrosted against the wood fire.

And Christmas, it wrapped me in waves of delight.
It sang in the snowflakes and danced with their flight.
It held me so tightly, I don’t quite know why.
It gave me a kiss and then bid me goodbye.

‘Cause now all I see, all I see all around
are blue skies and sunshine that plainly surround.
And people sing songs about Christmas in white
while they prance in their flip flops in warm winter’s night.

They’ll sprinkle their fake snow atop their fake tree.
They’ll cue their gas fire for something to see.
They’ll order hot coffee but hope that it better
be only lukewarm so it matches the weather.

And in this strange place oh so far from the season,
that lacks all the bliss and gives every good reason
to hate every song, every gift, every toy
and the measly attempt at some holiday joy,

I don’t.

‘Cause though the pure magic of winter did die
and–yes–was swapped for an inadequate try.
None of that matters, see, now that I know
that Christmas is family, it’s friends and it’s home.

Staff Writer