A Lady Selects Her Christmas Cards

FASTIDIOUSLY, with gloved and careful fingers,
Through the marked samples she pursues her
Which shall it be: the snowscape’s wintry languors.
Complete with church?
An urban skyline; children sweetly pretty
Sledding downhill; the chaste, ubiquitous wreath?
Schooner or candle or the simple Scottie
With verses underneath?
Perhaps it might be better to emblazon
With words alone the still, punctilious square.
(Oh, not Victorian, certainly. This season
One meets it everywhere.)
She has a duty proper to the weather —
A Birth she must announce, a rumor to spread,
Wherefore the very spheres once sang together
And a star shone overhead.
Here are the Tidings which the shepherds panted
One to another, kneeling by their flocks.
And they will bear her name (engraved, not
printed) —
Ten-fifty for the box.