Christmas Day

Silent, Joy, and Adestes
are nursing sleep hangovers

from being out too late last night
and the angels are in the corner

soothing hoarse throats with lemon honey,
as we open our eyes to a world
which, just for a moment,
seems to recall how to be kind.
caressing frosted windows,
the light tries not to disturb dreams,
a kettle slowly whistles somewhere
and the tune rouses a sleeping dog.
gently, the morning is unwrapped,
not with ribbons being tossed aside
and paper being ripped off in a whirl,
but in that soft awareness that
the true gifts are the ones
which are barely, rarely, noticed—
the hand resting lightly
on the shoulder of the beloved,
little children velcroed to any
adult who pays attention.
that shy visitor, joy, squeezes
into an empty space between
last night’s wonder and today’s weariness.
as the tree grows a little older
and candles in windows melt,
we are gobsmacked that,
once again,
in our living rooms littered with laughter,
in people listening to old stories as if new,
in weary hearts and frazzled hopes,
love shows up—
as if there was no place
it would rather be.

© 2025 Thom M. Shuman

Venmo: @Thom-Shuman