Dec 2014
~
the fountain on Main Street is frozen fast,
its wishes lie captured ’neath a sheet of glass;
the tinkling of bells is heard in the air,
it mingles with children playing in the square;
and exchanges of cheer as villagers greet,
watching cotton-like snowflakes fall in the street.
here white picket fences are wrapped in red lights,
form a candy cane lane in the coming night;
each street light adorned with a wreath and a dove,
and smoke from a fireplace curls wistfully above;
where icicles hang fearless, like lights they reflect,
and tree boughs bend low to pay their respects.
’tis Christ’s birth, they know; it's “that” time of year;
the season of joy; time to set aside tears.
far from the city, in this village they know,
the season they sing of is more than just bows,
than presents and wrapping, than green trees with *****,
nestled here ’neath the mountains, far from the malls,
they find treasure and meaning in the littlest things,
in stables with mangers, in angels with wings.
grateful far more for Giver, than ever the gift;
finding faith, hope and love to be true gifts that lift.
joining Christ at His Mass, in a world oft gone wrong,
they celebrate the Child in worship-filled song;
and the sound of their voices lifts high out of sight,
to dance with the breeze on this Christmas Eve’s night.
yes, ’tis Christ’s birth, they know... it's “that” time of year;
a season of joy, with good news to declare.
~
*post script.
we are saddened by the dilution of Christmas as a meaningful holy day in our western culture, yet mindful that it is individuals who can make this different; who need only make a decision to, with intentionality, bring this aspect back into their lives, letting others do what they will do.
the fountain on Main Street is frozen fast,
its wishes lie captured ’neath a sheet of glass;
the tinkling of bells is heard in the air,
it mingles with children playing in the square;
and exchanges of cheer as villagers greet,
watching cotton-like snowflakes fall in the street.
here white picket fences are wrapped in red lights,
form a candy cane lane in the coming night;
each street light adorned with a wreath and a dove,
and smoke from a fireplace curls wistfully above;
where icicles hang fearless, like lights they reflect,
and tree boughs bend low to pay their respects.
’tis Christ’s birth, they know; it's “that” time of year;
the season of joy; time to set aside tears.
far from the city, in this village they know,
the season they sing of is more than just bows,
than presents and wrapping, than green trees with *****,
nestled here ’neath the mountains, far from the malls,
they find treasure and meaning in the littlest things,
in stables with mangers, in angels with wings.
grateful far more for Giver, than ever the gift;
finding faith, hope and love to be true gifts that lift.
joining Christ at His Mass, in a world oft gone wrong,
they celebrate the Child in worship-filled song;
and the sound of their voices lifts high out of sight,
to dance with the breeze on this Christmas Eve’s night.
yes, ’tis Christ’s birth, they know... it's “that” time of year;
a season of joy, with good news to declare.
~
*post script.
we are saddened by the dilution of Christmas as a meaningful holy day in our western culture, yet mindful that it is individuals who can make this different; who need only make a decision to, with intentionality, bring this aspect back into their lives, letting others do what they will do.
