One
Father Kelly argues capably; he quantifies the flames of hell. But I’m a young man not immune to winter’s fingers and perfume. Cider, wood smoke, blanketed lanes, black-capped chaplains chatter in the treetops; laughing in the boughs they preach a way of mischief this December day.

Two
Sullen orchards frosted, glowering, horses shod with soot and lost but glowing embers, old November chimneys breathing blackened breath. Shiny noses, reddened cheeks, buttered rum and laden mantelpieces act like creases in a well-worn tavern yuletide grin.

Three
Dusk induces shops of cinnamon, clockwork mice and gaily-colored cloth to burst with heady flights of boisterous, bounding, bloodstained light. Snowflakes shine like retinal haloes! Church bells all but mute, yet I tiptoe, slipping past the headstones into the woods where a pretty girl promised me that she would!

Four
Gifts and forfeits, coy and ribbon-bound, given, coaxed, unwrapped, surrendered. Hearts are leaking, spirits set on wreaking chaos-love duets. Suppertime, eggnog, pipes alight! A song in the lungs of mortal merriment! These are days unbent with cheer! The animated deathtime of the year!