The church songs are sung
and the eve turns to morn.
A gift for my love
then we're off to adorn
our family's fine tree with our presents.
We feast on eggs
and bacon and laughter,
with hot cider and cinnamon buns after,
young and old gathering to know each each other.
Everyone takes turns
as the gifts make their rounds,
An eager drawing nephew
makes animal sounds,
and grown-ups recall being young.
Wearing silly hats
and making silly faces,
people too long seperated
resume familiar places.
Then we listen to the quiet hush of the falling snow,
the first time in a generation, on Christmas.
After food, family and presents settle,
we travel through the snow
with all of our many gifts
and joy in tow,
hurrying carefully on.
At last, our own fire,
blazing from the bellows,
is giving it's heat
to our - until just recently -
quite chilly feet.
It's good to be home.
On this day when so much is given
and so much is taken,
I gaze at my wife
while the black chai is steeping,
and I know it's Christmas we're keeping.
