Christmas 1947 Indian River
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It is Christmas again.
My Aunt sits
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at a small dark organ
playing carols
and then – Danny Boy.
We are all singing –
united by blood and the place.
The small wood stove
with the mica face
warms us all
and there is happiness here—
at Indian River.
It is all different now.
George Whibbs
The Expositor publishes a poem monthly.
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