[I wrote this piece when we had a warm, no-snow Christmas in 1965, I think.]
Green Christmas
******* — middle of the carol of devotion
They felt warm air wash — snow ebb — and they shivered
*******— and soon the crisp clear jingle bells
*******were clicky buds ad suddedly the sdow was god.
And brown slush and rain and wet wool coats
And limp brown bows that blacked and mourned
Were what was left.
*******They sat by fireplace, backs of heads to black window:
*******“A green Christmas is an ill omen,” she said.
*******“I think not of omens,” he said, and wicker shivered.
Jiggle buds clicked lonely on the door
And jiggledeverbore.
