Reindeer Moon

Not a high-concept poem. Seasonal, though. Also silly.

Photo by Jack B on Unsplash

I saw you out there last weekend, leaning from your windows and climbing up your ladders and around on the eaves to get the decorations hung just right! It looks great, and as a token of my thanks and admiration I offer you this bit of twinkle-lit silliness.

[Long lines in this, um, poem; it will be easiest to read on a full-size screen.]

---

REINDEER MOON


								                                            Each year 
in December, as Christmas goes up along my city street, the fire fighters
at the station down the block (square, big-doored, flat roof, tall flagpole)
fasten a giant wreath above their window; then, last winter, some fire-house
   genius
wrapped a wire mesh reindeer in twinkle-lights and set it above the wreath,
at the flagpole’s base. All right, I thought, not my taste, but why not
a reindeer on the roof? At least the footing’s good.

  								                                         Then one night,
walking home in Advent darkness, heavy from work, I stopped mid-sidewalk,
blinking up and across the street, stock-still ‘til I was sure of what I saw:
the twinkle-lit reindeer on the firehouse roof, facing north and swinging
his antlers from side to side, east to west and back, scanning the horizon
for smoke or a flying sleigh, or shaking his head in disapproval (if that
is something reindeer do) as he gazed across the hills to the next county.  

                                                                                                                  For longer 
than you would think necessary I stood there, half wishing someone would 
     walk by
so I could ask: you see it too, right, a twinkle-lit reindeer shaking its head? 
But no one came, and deciding that was best, I looked away at last,
shivered, and walked on down the block to my apartment building.

							                                         A few nights later
came winter’s first storm, wind and rain sheeting against rattled windows, 
     soaking 
and snapping the fire house flags, all night and most of a morning; and when
the sky cleared and I walked down the block for fresh air and coffee, there
was the reindeer, slewed at the flag pole’s base, up-tilted rump now turned
     toward
the street as if to moon (if that is something reindeer do) the passers-by, 
and resolutely twinkling – as was the head, aimed west and groundwards, still 
    in motion
left to right and back, counting the rooftop puddles. By sunset a rescue crew
had righted him and he stood braced and facing north again, antlers stiffer
maybe than usual, twinkle-lights blazing, as if doing his best to forget 
the whole undignified incident. I sympathize. I wish I could.

							                             O twinkle-lit reindeer,
faithful to your fire house, I wish the storm had set you free to fly,
as reindeer are rumored to do in December, high above the rooftops,
unburdened by any sleigh, nose pointed in whatever direction you and the
   wind
might choose, above storm-clouds and through the rain, kicking up your 
   rump
to moon the city as you fly across the moon, bound for whatever steppes
and snowfields your twinkle-lit herd calls home.

---

[You can hear an audio rendition of this deathless work of art by using the little widget above the photograph.]

I said silliness, didn’t I? And I wasn’t wrong.

I wrote this charmer in late 2012, when twinkle-wrapped roof figures were more of a novelty than they are now. (Or maybe they weren’t novel even then, and I’m just easily amazed by twinkle-light technology.) I’ve pestered my friends with it repeatedly in the following winters, and now it’s your turn. Can I offer you a single deep thought or poetic insight about it? Are you kidding? It’s silly. The only insight that occurs to me is: sometimes silly is good. Sometimes it helps to remember and share things that make us laugh. Sometimes, when you’re staring down the start of a hectic holiday and year-end season, being mooned by a twinkle-lit reindeer is just the break you need. You’re welcome.