A Christmas Poem
Dec 22, 2007 in Poetry
It’s quiet through the old house,
although the wood seems to speak itself,
with creaks and noises afoot when all else is still.
The lights flicker in mutating, colored shapes across a darkened ceiling,
the only illumination in the room.
And all is in anticipation,
children sleeping but lightly enough so as to awaken quickly.
Their nerves filled with the awareness that magic is all around them,
magic whether it be true or be imagined is real just the same.
An innocent time,
where possibility stretches an endless length.
It’s quiet through the old house,
But all is wildly alive in anticipation.
from Considerations
