On Midnight Eve

Merry Christmas Eve,

On Midnight Eve with Luke 2:13:14 is a poem I wrote about a fictional family perhaps in Little House on the Prairie times, perhaps in a Thomas Kinkade painting, perhaps right now in a little cabin near the Smoky Mountains. It’s about life, love, waiting, watching and the wonderful promise and security we have that just as Christmas came once it will come again.

On Midnight Eve,
frosted evergreens
were deep in the snowdrift
when the first golden ray
splintered through skeletal underwood.

A shot rang, the thrush whistled,
and deer dashed into the thicket.

The hunter arrived home
as sun fingers swept back over the horizon;
a new moon was suspended in the sky,
keeping watch in the wintry beauty.

A young woman cradled her baby
to her bosom
as she kindled a candle;
the flame wavered.

Wind snapped,
wrestling the outside;
as her husband stoked the logs,
embers flitted.

She settled the baby
into a bassinet under a quilt,
and rocked gently;
tiny eyelids drooped.

Humming an ancestral lullaby,
she prepared the bird he had caught.

Then, over supper,
he secured her hand, bowed heads;
their prayers, a fragrant aroma
whiffed to their Father above.

On midnight eve,
the man held the Holy Bible
with calloused fingers.
His husky voice reverberated,

“And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill toward men!”

She supposed the Angels were with them
this very night.
“Ba ba,” babbled her baby boy,
as if he could see the divine beings
(maybe he could.)

The fire crackled,
shadows long;
the wintry wind
now lulled
and silence rejoiced,
Christmas has come
as it would tomorrow.

Her lips bloomed;
his radiant face.
He lassoed her smile to his heart
and longed to caress her cheek;
her eyes lit like stars in the sky
in the soft lantern
and wick glow
where he would keep watch.

Merry Christmas Eve,

Love Deborah

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