A Christmas Poem

All is at rest

in the season

of the reason,

when the days

of passion

have passed

with the withered

power of the flower,

and the bucks

banging their

branches for the

doe retire to

weather the ire

of the ice.

The crickets are

quiet, the stream

now freezes

and the leaves

lay in their yearly

layer as the

wind wanders

through the

branches above

without a sound.

Yet no place

in the planet’s

path around

the sun

is more lively

in the soul,

none more

giving to the

heart of the gifts

of light

and warmth,

for in the

restful darkness

and the harshness

of the chill

that yet gives

stillness to a

burning mind,

the fire brings

together the hands

that give and receive

of the kindness

born among them.