Christmas Ghost

Christmas settles over the lake grown cold,
and long gone are summer days' squeals and shrieks.
The once valiant sun's rays quickly fold,
leaving behind the destruction frost wreaks.
A lone mallard's my only solstice guest,
softly quacking as it putters about.
It gives no hint of any greater quest
than searching out bugs from their wet redoubt.
It knows not of the wants that call us,
nor offers me from ennui solace.

What do ducks know of redemption or grace?
They float equally blind of space and time,
drawing wrinkles on the water's young face.
And then the lines vanish, an erased crime:
the lake's smooth surface still and pure again.
What a gift it must be, to have one's wrongs
cleansed and forgotten, forgiven by men;
conscience unhaunted by guilt's siren songs;
for absence to register not as loss
but renewal, as if time is a cross

that pardons all sins. It brings some comfort,
to know that, like seasons, our lives will fade,
and whatever our worst thoughts and comport
might be, in the end, all debts shall be paid--
witness how the moon hangs like a dropped coin,
a not-so-subtle silver reminder.
Three ducks swim west, and I wish I could join,
wondering which of us is the blinder:
those stuck in doubt and yet no less serene;
or swim without care for what it might mean. . .

and yet these wise birds arise from the egg
certain of the water and air's embrace,
for love and acceptance no need to beg,
or just once question their purpose and place.
On this bare Christmas I envy their faith,
and feel myself hollowed, an unhallowed wraith.

M. Benjamin Thorne is an Associate Professor of Modern European History at Wingate University. Possessed of a lifelong love of history and poetry, he is interested in exploring the synergy between the two. His poems appear or are forthcoming in Rogue Agent, Feral, Gyroscope Review, Molecule, Red Eft Review, and Thimble Lit Mag. He lives and sometimes sleeps in Charlotte, NC.