Every Christmas I set out to write a poem to my nephew, Robert Francis McVerry, JR.
Each year I say I am gonna write about all the cool things Baby Bobby did with his cousins that year. Tell the fiction we all know would be true.
Every year I can not. Instead I return to the ghost Dicken's forgot. The "Ghost of Christmas Never Was."
A specter seeing the unseen
apparition animated in angst. A
poltergeist pouncing on possibilities in the
revenant of revelry turns
from night to day
light to dark
as the clock continues to click
in those moments
we must seek to wonder
Sensed in all that surrounds
never abound, but bonded by
love and wonderr
Here is this year's poem: