A December Dreaming
Night drapes itself over December
like a velvet cloak stitched with silver,
and I sit before the Christmas tree
as though before some gentle altar—
its lights blooming softly
like tiny hearths of heaven.
Each twinkle feels alive,
a glimmering breath,
a sigh of warmth
in the cool hush of winter.
They shimmer through the branches
like secret thoughts,
whispering in gold and quiet blue.
Cookies cool on the counter,
their sweetness drifting through the house,
warm sugar and vanilla swirling
like a memory just waking,
like a dream that’s learned to float.
The scent feels like a hand on the shoulder,
soft, reassuring, impossibly tender.
By the stove, wood sighs into flame,
amber and slow,
as though the fire is thinking,
as though it too is lulled
by the soft enchantment of the hour.
Its glow leaps gently across the room,
a dance of warmth and honeyed light
that paints the walls in fleeting gold.
Outside, snow drifts down
with a grace that feels borrowed
from the wings of angels.
It hushes the world,
turns distance into softness,
makes even the dark
feel like something kind.
The night grows quiet,
a quiet so deep it feels sacred,
as though the world is holding me
in a single, perfect breath.
Even my own heartbeat
seems to grow softer,
slowed by a peace
that has settled like snowfall
inside my chest.
The Christmas lights blink gently,
in no hurry,
tender as eyelids growing heavy with wonder.
Their glow blurs the edges of the room
until everything feels enchanted,
every shadow,
every flicker,
every drifting curl of cookie-sweet air.
And in this moment,
with snow falling like white petals outside,
and warmth gathering around me
like a long, familiar embrace,
I feel the night leaning close,
as if it wants to tell me
a secret it only shares
with those who linger,
those who listen,
those who believe.
I close my eyes,
and December holds me,
gentle, glowing,
full of the soft, miraculous quiet
that only winter,
and wonder,
and love for the world,
can ever truly bring.