Sense is not the sense of celebrations. Each holiday is founded on a myth. And though it might be good for good relations,
Some would stamp it fantasy forthwith. Oil for one day never lasted eight,
Nor did a virgin once give birth to God. Stories store beliefs long out of date,
Gifts of faith that there’s no need to prod. Rejoice, then, in a sensibility
Embracing both the fable and the fact, Each, in fact, an equal mystery,
Though one’s a working truth and one’s an act. If one can find a way to look both ways,
No nagging doubt need dim the holidays. Giving voice to what by right is wrong,
Sing of the truth in the beauty of the song.