A Christmas Poem

When you put yor fingers in the chinks
And pull up the faceplate
To feel the gears and cogs,
The smooth wood cold metal,
Everything becomes mysterious.
You finally see what was not there before:
The Love that always was beyond the spherical
Whose gift is of the purest mournful beauty,
Like midnight snow on the fir trees
Or violins on E string
Then you can smell the damp earth of ancient barns and cobble streets
And blood from the holly leaf fingers.
While the crackling flames become portals to elder days and times foretold