Your Monday Blessing:
(with apologies to Mr. Dickens, and wishing him and his a happy 203rd birthday)

“Come in and know me better, man,” the winter giant roars,
He’s crammed your hearth with mistletoe while you were filled with snores.
He didn’t die with Boxing Day, or February’s chill,
The spirit drinks the season up, and never gets his fill.
“Come in and know me better, all, come sit beside the fire,
My spectral heft’s more real than many a funeral pyre.
You won’t find me tomorrow, man, I wasn’t here before,
I make the misers merry, then give the proceeds to the poor.
I’m larger than your bank account, more terrible than fear –
For whatever will befall you, it’s bound to happen here.
I am the present moment – ain’t I beautiful and bold?
Come, draw aside the curtain, the fire’s quickly getting cold.
Your virtue’s hidden in the vault – I have an extra key,
Tomorrow gains no interest from your strident misery.
Don’t build a shrine to someday, and store all your good deeds there,
While a child dwindles down to death, for lack of proper care.
In every home I travel to, I freely drop some balm,
The ones who know their need the most oft find my peace and calm.
The ones who know their need the least wrap arms around themselves,
And fight for their last raisin, while there’s turkey on the shelves.
The decent folk, they raise a glass, and speak to your good name:
Those profligate big spenders of compassion and acclaim.
Why revise their faulty figures, when you could just prove them right –
By rising every today, a little grateful for the light.
Come in and know me better, I am waiting for you here,
I’ll share of what I have, and I will keep you in good cheer.

“Much they saw, and far they went, and many homes they visited, but always with a happy end. The Spirit stood beside sick beds, and they were cheerful; on foreign lands, and they were close at home; by struggling men, and they were patient in their greater hope; by poverty, and it was rich. In almshouse, hospital, and jail, in misery’s every refuge, where vain man in his little brief authority had not made fast the door and barred the Spirit out, he left his blessing, and taught Scrooge his precepts.” – A Christmas Carol, Chapter 3