Today is Christmas.
I meant to write a poem today —
not of turkey, cake, or wine,
but of the Child in Bethlehem,
of peace on earth, of love divine.
Yet all my thoughts keep turning back
to the scent that fills the air:
cinnamon and coffee, toast,
and something roasting, rich and rare.
I think of breakfast, warm and loud,
of laughter spilling from the room,
of hands that pass the plates around,
and faces bright with light and bloom.
I think of lunch — the golden bird,
the cranberry’s tart, crimson gleam,
the mash, the greens, the wine that stirs
the heart into a waking dream.
And later, friends who hug and go,
while family sinks into soft rest,
and children, eyes alight, still glow
beneath the tree, with gifts unblessed.
I think of faces, young and old,
lit up by paper, ribbon, bow —
the joy that needs no creed or code,
the simple grace of being known.
So let the angels sing above;
let carols rise from every street.
For me, the Christmas spirit lives
in food, in gifts, in love, in heat.
In laughter shared, in hands that hold,
in being here, in being home —
this, too, is how the story’s told:
the Word made flesh, and flesh made known.
