Before all the ashes had fallen down,
and the crux of the Christmas tree had
been in gold foils and sunny gifts found,
we walked to the conductor and asked
for a ticket. He smiled so jolly we had
taken him for St. Nick “Why you ‘ought
to think this should cost some form of
money!” He declared, we all chuckled
and smiled as we entered that great big
circular train. Its electric tassles pushed
by a puggie giants hand. Goliath would
pass and ask where the fire was from.
Our heads bobbed and weaved as we
gazed out the windows and circled
around the watered pine of the Christmas
tree. Tradition had birthed us here,
and our great Father set us here. His
hands a sort of molder of sythes and
of cycles, cropping away grain and
setting soft tracks for children. His
eyes would twinkle with rememberance
of his youth, as he had been on another
train, covered in soot. We enjoyed our
ride on the train, unbreaking the cycle.
We waited for those hands of molding-
to find us a holding in some carboard
box, as a gift or such, in foil or such,
that we may wake up under a different
tree, and possibly, a different direction.


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