The traditions remain:

An old family tree,

The making

Of Gingerbread houses,

Wreaths, and lights,

A Christmas fondue–

And I ask,

Will they get me through this?

On the other side of the shadows,

Is my shadow,

I take that by faith, too.

He said, I can’t find my purpose.

I wondered out loud,

Is there a purpose?

Besides surviving, that is.

And the smaller things we cling to,

Making them bigger things–

An outsized portion of our existence

Is in the minutes, winding down.

To wallow in the shadows

Is, perhaps, a luxury.

It comes to this:

At first, we know everything,

Then, nothing,

And at last,

We are okay

With our lack.