Weary of sword fights and fisticuffs, 
battle cries and cudgels, I suggest a party, 
root out the tea set I bought my grandson 
for Christmas, and help him set the table.
We gather badgers, rabbits, monkeys, bears,
chipmunks, a toothy alligator, plush creatures
from the gentler world of children’s stories
where animals can talk and handle
a fork and piece of cake. Accepting this shift
from action figures to cuddlies, my grandson
arranges the guests and pours imaginary
punch. In a moment of silence, Jacob and I
consider the scene and the narrative it requires.
Never at a loss, he begins with the birthday
song for Monkey, but then the story takes
another turn. Even here, as someone said 
of fiction, only trouble is interesting.
Peter Rabbit will not sit next to Alligator,
so I intervene to move him and soothe
his fears. But I can’t keep up with the unfolding 
drama. Freddy Teddy blows out the birthday 
candles before Monkey can. Badger gloats
when he’s served a larger piece of cake 
than Chrissy Chipmunk, who begins to cry.
When the fuzzy python sidles into the party,
pandemonium breaks loose. Only the promise
of another, larger cake with chocolate icing,
another pot of punch, and a mouse for the snake
bring please’s, thank you’s, apologies all around.
A kind of peace, temporary as any other.

Easy to see why they
feared the sun
was dying, or angry,
leaving them for good.

It’s all astronomy, sweetlings,
nothing we’ve said or done.

Here’s the hinge of despair
where winter swings open.
It will grow colder, but
the days will lengthen.

A balance like a seesaw
with the sun its fulcrum.

Electrify the tree.
Line up the candles.
We need some starry news, 
a festival of lights.