Christmas Songs From the Past

River chopped Into rugged blocks Of ice and powdered snow Under a covered bridge The tap of horse’s hooves overhead Rapids froze in place, agony on her face A boy growing tall in his sleep Under the crisp white clean sheets His daddy’s shoes he dreams to fill Stockings hung above the mantle The river poses for deer painters Find the slope of her ear lobe The shadow of her cheekbones The snowy curves wound through the forests Like skirts on dance floors swirling Her canvas she gives to rows of winter crows, a crown Cold wind musters at our latched window Like murmurs behind a closed door, the songs Of Christmas best belong To the static ebb and flow Of a distant station on the radio Crooners singing to their high school sweethearts From ballrooms soft with violins and horns Unreachable from so long long ago.