Calendar

A Swiss village sprouts palm trees
For camels, journey-worn, to rest beneath

And ruminate; a star; a sanguine baby
Cooing to the snow . . .

Little fingers open doors
To draw out this year’s treasures

From behind now-memorized disguises:
Sheep, the camel’s baggage,

Where the moon’s adhesive has dried
And flaked, its wooden face askew;

Plywood painted to resemble
An antique, which it’s becoming

Year on year. Doors are loose,
Corner-guards develop rust.

Once, at least, the whole thing fell
From ledge to floor, catastrophe,

Scattered chocolate everywhere.
Some years we’ve kept it hidden

In the garage, the closet, to protect
Against fingers riddling for more

Than their allotted share. Not theft,
But youthful searching, cleverness

Unbound. But it’s one by one, door by door,
A glimpse, the plastic glimmer

Of a wrapper. Open, shut, abundance,
Then back to bedtime’s dull ablutions.

A snowflake lands on a camel’s nose
And briefly wakes her with its melting.

A parenthesis. Most months, of course,
There’s nothing there at all.