Signs and Wonders

It's Christmas Day and there's no
snow on the ground, no sheet of dark

water frozen between the river's
banks.  No panic of angel wings

imprinted on fresh-fallen mounds.
No snow in Denver either, nor 

in Rockport IL; though blizzard 
snow has fallen on the peaks 

of Mauna Koa and Mauna Loa.  
And someone somewhere is wrapping 

and unwrapping presents, or eating 
cheese, melon wheels, and pineapple 

spears— though not the genetically 
modified pink pineapple cultivated 

on a farm in south central Costa Rica— 
the things you could have if you live 

in a country where you get hot 
or cold water at the turn of a spigot 

and wait for blue-gray vans with a bent 
arrow and the name of one of the world's

largest rivers painted on their sides;
they deliver computer parts as well

as coconut jam and mandolin strings.
But someone somewhere is waiting

for rescue from a mountaintop
or preparing to bury their father.

Someone is wishing for a child,
for a carton of relief goods, for a way 

to get home after years of walking 
every detour in the countryside.

 

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