It's Christmas

The tree stripped
To brown bark bone
Pricks the sky
Urges it to come alive
Sun, come out from
Hiding in your
Blanket gray
Son, insist on shining though
The darkness moves
To stifle day
It's Christmas and
Your imagery consists
Of spackled, shadowed
Brush.
It's Christmas and
Your symphony persists
In yellowed, hazy
Hush.