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Poem

It’s Christmas Eve and we will travel
a long way on a cold night
thinking of the twinkling lights,
the golden bulbs, the heirloom crèche,
the smell of sweets and spice.
A hardy greeting at the door!
The family, friends in velvet clothes
of red and black and gold with bows.
The hugs, the kiss, the Christmas wreath.
In we’ll go, and sing and glow
and eat our ham and beef.
We’ll join loud fun as one by one 
we find our gifts beneath the tree.
We’ll toast and tease before the hearth,
kick off our heels, amused and warm—
embraced, enwrapped in Christmas charm.

Now we arrive, and all is hushed.
The place is cold. We see our breath.
The cow and pig have not been killed.
There’re lambs and goats alive as well.
The place is full of foreign folk,
battered guests and tattered hosts.
The floor is dirt. There is no tree.
No one has offered food or drink.
We’ve traveled far but cannot sit.
We see a light and just one Gift.
Is this one Gift for all to share?
This scene is death to Christmas cheer.

I stood and thought of all I’d missed—
until I knelt before the Gift.

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