“Upon a Christmas Morning”
White-woven water coats the fields
with icy wool. A shining sheet
hangs off the trees and drapes the brush.
Transparent swords sheathed on roof eaves
stab down at drifts blown by the wind
that swirls white dust from fences still
standing stiff in their new world,
where welcomed sun blinds you and me
as we walk the powdered lane.
The bitter breeze swirls past my nose;
I pull my sweater tighter yet
about myself and cross my arms
then look at you all bundled up
in cap and scarf and layered coat.
You just smile, but you look cold.
I put my arm across your shoulders,
and we walk on, side-by-side,
into the house, warmed by wood fire.
Lights twirling ’round a green fir tree
and smells of pine and Christmas ham
meet us with the opening door.
Dad and Grandpa, seated, chat,
while Mom and Sis fix up the feast,
and Crosby sings “White Christmas” slow,
and Brother tells a joke we’ve heard,
but you still laugh, and I do too.
It’s Christmas Day, who wouldn’t laugh?