Wreath

On every street lamp in town,
A fresh wreath, ribboned in red,
Proclaims something,
Though in this flat and secular time
We cannot be sure
Just what we are called to celebrate.
A car rolls by,
The driver staring fixedly ahead,
Grim-faced though he wears a Santa hat,
As if by doing so
He might stumble into joy.
Nearby a house, decked in lights,
Blinks in colored cheerfulness
As a faceless neighbor walks by, head down,
Hands pocketed against the cold,
Oblivious to the decorations.
In the church, the pink candle
Of the Advent Wreath
Is set to flame,
Sending a wisp of joy into the morning.
This, and every Christmas wreath,
Shape our imagination,
Eternal circles with no beginning, no end--
Images of the force that binds the universe,
The irresistible power that brings us back
Over and over again to love.
Joy can not be bought,
Can not be had by sheer will or determination.
It may appear in the darkest times,
Like a candle’s fire,
And even when we are most alone
Joy may come unbidden.
But it will never allow us to stay alone.
When joy appears,
It asks us to wreath the world,
To make a circle so big
That all may be gathered in
To celebrate, together, a wonder,
A holy wonder.