Christmas Morning
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Christmas morning is its own kind of quiet—
the early dark, the tree, the anticipation,
the children up before the parents would prefer
in the particular, irreplaceable elation.
The gifts are not the thing—or not primarily—
the thing is the gathering around the light,
the family collected in one room together,
the ordinary made extraordinary by the rite.
Whatever you believe about the day,
the gathering it calls for is its gift—
the table spread for everyone who matters,
the season's brief and generous lift.
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Christmas morning is its own kind of quiet—
the early dark, the tree, the anticipation,
the children up before the parents would prefer
in the particular, irreplaceable elation.
The gifts are not the thing—or not primarily—
the thing is the gathering around the light,
the family collected in one room together,
the ordinary made extraordinary by the rite.
Whatever you believe about the day,
the gathering it calls for is its gift—
the table spread for everyone who matters,
the season's brief and generous lift.
