December

I was the snowball,
rounded, packed, and flung,
with a hoot.

I was the white icing
on the piney tree,
the bite in the frost.

I was the Santa
sliding down chimneys
on Christmas Eve.

I was the child,
bursting forth at first light,
shaking stockings out.

I was the gingerbread man,
running out of the oven,
the slip on black ice.

I was the tinkle of bells
and faraway hymns
known by heart.

The year hushed
to a halt. Someone
had turned off the tree lights.

The calm in the quiet
woke me, and in the darkness,
I remembered to give thanks for it all.