City of Roses
Gamboling Through Gingerbread Grove
By: Noah Eaton
Every white winter my mind goes off on vagaries,
to the sugarcoated gates of a place so savory,
where marshmallow marzipan glaciers rise above the clouds,
and Ricciarelli Road's always packed with crooning crowds.
They’ve got fences and lumber yards made of pretzel sticks,
and each church and mansion towers with ice cream cone turrets,
their houses have graham cracker shutters and wafer walkways,
and the children’s eyes sparkle each day like silver dragees.
They commute through town with tricycles with round cookie wheels,
wassailing each and every day, before their evening meals,
on steady diets of cardamom and roasted barley,
and blizzards of brown sugar keep their bodies glistening.
Sugar plums and rum balls speckle the scenic sierras,
one hotspot is Rosette Rabanadas' Riviera,
where gingerbread children skip along the fulgent ravine,
and dip their ambrosial toes in seas of Devonshire cream.
The Amaryllis Express winds around their fairyland,
on Red Vine rails that cavort like Emmet Otter’s Jug Band,
from downtown Candy Cane Lane to Mount Olentzero,
where margarine and cinnamon gush from the volcanoes.
Down at Lollipop Lake a sign there reads “Thin Icing”,
but families find ice-skating there ever enticing,
and Pastor Pio Quinto loves ice-fishing Swedish fish,
and asks for folks to offer peppermint to his alms dish.
Uncle Julemanden herds sugar cookie reindeer here,
at Sugarloaf Stable, where he lives a true chevalier,
where he kneads, bakes and grazes each buck to a golden brown,
then lets them roam free so they can be the talk of the town.
Here it snows powdered sugar ten months of every year,
but the lemon meringue sun often comes out to veneer,
each graham cracker roof and glass candy stained window with spice,
for no fairyland flat house without allspice will suffice.
Each winter gingerbread boys can’t resist an epic race,
training sugar cookie reindeer to pull tea kettle sleighs,
and meet each year on the Twelfth Night on Panettone Peak,
for the Cavallucci Classic, racing for the Gold Stocking.
For those who don’t have the heart at being competitive,
becoming sugar plum ballerinas is their true niche,
performing weekly at the Anise Amphitheater,
with seating made of funnel cakes glazed with cookie batter.
Come, now, and join me on the Amaryllis Express,
to a frosty dreamland where the heart’s always at recess,
drizzled with marzipan palaces and caramel coves,
oh-lee-o-lay-dee-oh, gamboling through Gingerbread Grove.
"If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other"