Christmas is a warm thing
by Shirley Powell McPhillips
Christmas is a warm thing, wrinkled or new;
A softness and bright lights all red, green, and blue;
A tingle, a tiptoe, a fire aglow;
All crispy and nippy-a snowflake and snow.
Christmas is tinsel, a present, a tree;
A crying and laughter, a giggle of glee;
Or quiet, a candle, a flicker of flame;
A whisper, a touch-the soft falling rain.
Christmas is good folks, old, young, the same;
Visitors and carols again and again;
A pudding, a plum, a goose full of fat;
A smelling, a stuffing of this, those, and that.
Christmas is a shepherd, a journey, a stall;
A mother's wee baby-a gift to us all-
A reverence, a service, a towering spire;
A feeling, a surging, a triumphant choir.
Christmas is everything, poorest or bare;
Richly ornated, embraced with care;
A vision for all or one hope, set apart;
A tree thing, a real thing that lives in my heart.