Days

The spirit of each Day
wakes one Morning
having slept the best part of a Year.

And the Morning is the same for each of them -
so much to do, having done so little,
and all in a few hours.

But for Christmas it’s different.
For Christmas it comes hard.

The other days are merely birthdays or anniversaries,
a holiday here and there.
There may be more important times of the year
but for Christmas we are always counting down.

But Christmas finds it easy because Christmas doesn’t care.
And all the other Days are rooting for him, knowing it isn’t fair.

He sees himself that Morning
through the tiny drops of water
that would make a ghost of him.

He wipes the glass
and smiles
and doesn’t bother to shave.

Because Christmas doesn’t care
lending him an air of generosity.

Because he knows that none of this Day matters
and when he’s done he can get back

to stopping by sleepers in deserted doorways;
to covering with white gauze an open wound;
to sitting at bedsides pushing silver hairs away from tired eyes;
to boiling kettles and listening for cries:

A stranger, a medic, a parent, a child -

bringing hope, affection, or simply witness
kneeling, there, where the light has failed.

And never yet has he slept a whole night through.