Reflections On A Christmas Eve


Some nights are like this, a glass of burgundy,
candles permeating the air with lavender, a subtle
nostalgia for having passed this way.
I look out into the darkness, and it makes itself at home.

The window on this world I am reflecting on
is made of lace, from which I do not hide behind,
for I view this space, with gratitude and grace.

Every living cell within me carries
the physical recollection of Christmas Eve,
for here is a moment in time I have lived,
loved, and left behind a number of times.

This space of transitory occupancy,
complete with worn-out habits,
is like the comfort of the threadbare winter coat
I don’t want to let go of.

Light enters here and here butterflies are born.
A child finds his way home. Words flow freely, easily,
Although as wit would have it with a price to pay,
this Eve is but a stop along the way,
for yet another window waits upon another day.

— John Thomas Dodds —

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