Christmas Poem

It started with a birth, of course,

miraculous even without

the connection to something divine.

Birth is divine enough on its own.

 

Rebirth happens in December

when the first good snow swaddles

the dreary November landscape

in a blanket of shimmering white.

 

Yes, and it’s a birth when you

emerge from sleep to join me

in the kitchen, for a hug, coffee, and

then a shared hour at the window,

 

which this morning gave birth to

a rabbit, then five deer, a possum,

our elegant fox loping through

the miraculously dazzling snow,

 

and the sunrise across the lake.

Each morning the son of God is born

outside our window, into the light of day.

It’s our daily Christmas miracle,

 

silent, holy – so tender and mild.

We pause, and in our own ways

we sing our celebration and

worship the heavenly peace,

 

going out to the sacred woods

to nurture and feed our beloved,

our brother and sister creatures

who bless us each morning.