Christmas Morning

It is Christmas morning,
eight degrees outside
and the world is silent,

even your mind,
so often a circus of thoughts,
is still.

A rarity, this stillness,
this place of quiet,
of peace,

this place without expectations,
demands, fears, lust,
without anything but the moment.

Your feet crunch on the snow,
and you hear the details of the sound,
clear as a photograph.

The wind brings a tear to your eye,
and it slides down your cheek.
You feel it freeze.

You breath in.
savoring the wood smoke
of a distant fire.

Nothing has changed, really.
Somewhere, all the struggle still remains.
But not now. Not in this moment.

This then, is peace. The moment.
Now.
Christmas.

About this poem.

It is Christmas morning here at Quarry House. My daughter is sleeping and will likely sleep till noon or after. It is quiet.

I went to church last night, the best way for me to spend Christmas Eve. The familiar hymns. The familiar scripture. The familiar, but never outdated, message of God’s love still echoes in my soul.

I am alone. I am never alone. That is the Christmas message.

Merry Christmas, my dear readers. Have a blessed day.

Tom