by Jen Hunt, from the archives
It's as routine as flossing
This tossing
Of seasonal sentiment hither and yon
And I've never been fond of that either
Why not save ourselves
Some trees?
Why not
Everyone,
On three,
Pass your Hallmark
Right?
We sinners, though a motley lot
Reunion at the tender plot
When God first became clad
As a man
Our hails, faintest ripples
Of angel peals and frankincense smells
Palest shadows of towns
Where crowns are tossed and
Flossing, if required
Will prove all heavenly
