hung on a nail on my front door, closed
to the world cold, to winds uncertain;
this is my home, my dependable storm.
Behind this door I live life daily,
ready to open when friends stop by
but happy to stay this side of winter
showing my wreath to the world outside.
This is my tree: my forest aroma
cut from its roots, brought in from the cold
to where it’s warm and dry, my summer
green as the grass beneath the snow.
This is tradition marked with tinsel,
silver and gold reflecting fire.
I like my tree real, my ice artificial,
the smell of pine with a touch of stars.
These are my lights: blinking and flashing
my Christmas spirit without a sound
but every note is filled with passion,
every word completes my song
and takes the message out of storage.
After long nights of singing blind
on lonely streets I am determined
to light these candles for the world outside.
This is my card: my Christmas greeting
telling you how I bid you well
and think of you in this wishful season
of shepherd’s wake and wisdom’s call,
of peace on earth, forever hoping
in God come down on a silent night.
I’ve been a stranger. You barely know me,
but this is my chance to make things right.
No comments:
Post a Comment