Poem: Christmas as Improv

nativity

Christmas as Improv

It is grey outside and the air smells like rain.
In the stores, the madness has already begun.

Here, it is quiet.
Somewhere in the distance, I hear a rooster.
My feet crunch on the snow.
It is Christmas eve.

I no longer imagine what Christmas will be.
It has been so many things already:
post card perfect, and a dark hell I believed
I would never emerge from.
Lonely.
Joyous.
Dry as a bone
Vibrant, rich and joyous.

Christmas, I have decided, is improv,
much as it was that first Noel night,
a time of the unexpected where,
like shepherds in their fields at night,
we choose

to cringe in fear, flee,
or run like madmen, seeking the joy.

About this poem

A couple of years after I left college, I took an acting class. I had done a bit of theatre in college and was missing it, so I thought a class might scratch that itch. Most of the class was improv because, the teacher said, “Life is Improv.”

Wiser words were never spoken. 

Tom 

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