Haibun

                                                                                                        

                                                      A SWISS VILLAGE CHRISTMAS

On a Saturday before Christmas, Kris Kringle visits our village.  Tall and slender in a dark red suit, reminiscent of pictures on old European Christmas cards.  He carries oranges and peppermint sticks and lumps of coal.  The children wait quietly.  Well mannered, there is no pushing and no whining.   Their last chance to prove how good they have been. 

                                                             gently falling snow—

                                                             a child whispers to Kris Kringle

                                                             and holds out his hand

Holiday decorations are few.  Wreaths in shop windows or colored lights.  Nothing elaborate.  Snow provides the best decoration.  And the moon, illuminating snow covered fields and woods.

                                                              Christmas Eve—       

                                                              searching the stars

                                                              in a blue-black sky

                                                   

There is a midnight Mass, and the small wooden church is crowded.  The responses in prayer are smooth and in unison.  No laggards here.  We all sing or try to.  Familiar hymns in Latin or English become unfamiliar in French.  I hum along.

                                                               flickering candles—

                                                               the joy of Christmas

                                                               in a foreign tongue

Bottle Rockets, spring 2006 #14