The Children Are Coming

An eastern icicle seems to impose as it's dripping down a church tower bell. Bitter cold made bell and ice juxtapose, as frost took its toll, now no one can tell. No galloping horse and no rebel cry amidst drifting snows now resting calmly. Yet not quite so, with kid's natural high, cast snowballs up, with their spirits jolly. A target shred reveals a silver bell. Gone are their folly, just eyes frozen stare. The front doors open. A priest says, Noel, to all of the kids who were gathered there. Merry Christmas all, have fun while you play. I'll see you at mass for Jesus' birthday.