What is tragedy other than lack of comedy in any given situation?

These daft days between Christmas and New Year's,
where time blends together,
and nostalgia and longing are one in the same,
I remember her mouth, smiling. 

The fun, frivolity and minor merriment
from naked orange groves to blue grass,
the broad concerning hurts me
to celebrate the Epiphany, the showing-forth of Love Itself.

But are there other gifts which grown-ups have not found,
buried in the garden soil, the frozen fields?
For it seems this week, as if the earth and nature
are caught up in some mighty pull of force. 

Some esoterics say that these daft days
are rich with some strange octave of the mind
whose qualities are sensed within our music’s scale:
some universal starting power; reluctance; recovery.

Enkindle inspissate kith yearning for completeness –
these, they say, are to be lived lightly seen and heavy sung in heart;
to participate in joyous activities of old company,
with comedy and tragedy, shared. 

In these strange and dull and heavy days, 
all this, all these, the presents yet to find, 
we could not make or buy, lie wrapped in mind,
longing for her mouth to mix grins again.