Do you hear what I hear too?

At the brush of midnight, the stroke of a bell

floats over the choir of voices that walks back and forth 

for the glory, such a big word one pins down to

friends faces like matching names, matching socks 

there will be wine pouring instead of juice 

because the aged wine is less risky on the heart

easier on the stomach than the sugar that will also arrive
by midnight when the bells start to ring announcing
a change of the music, a change in the direction of the wind
southward to mangers and houses decorated red and feasting on envy
in  a time where hugs can be exchangeable for better options
for toys, for dinners, for a solid existence,
 why do we have to keep rejecting these words
pretend that a seasonal change will fix the fractures of a year.