upon the eve of the baby jesus’ birthday in connecticut

there is a dream,
a quiet solitude of reality
that seems to exist – really;
a warmth of life
that has to pause, for a while,
and bask in the reward:
i couldn’t say what it might be for…
And I wonder if it is real,
when another reality comes into mind.
i have bills to pay, rent,
commitments to tend to,
and there is no way, how…
I see two realities –
the presents overflowing from the ornately adorned tree,
the soft light of lamps, muted patriotic with stars,
the light wooden floor, country treatments,
collection of snowmen on the mantle where
the wood stove pipes out it’s soul for me –
a quintessential New England winter
solitude without sound, but for the crackling stove;
the impending dreary of a thousand more
tomorrows, and every yesterday the same
where now can never be… it is dull.
Then there being two, i can choose
(it should seem to me!) –
so I option that all through the house
not a creature stirred, except me,
and gaze into stars through the windows,
reflected off the ice capped snow…
I’ll have now, like a fine feast savored
as each bite an indulgence lights upon the tongue.
I’ll have now, the dream manifest
a union of presence.