Little Christmas



Little Christmas is what my father called this day, January 6th. For my mother, it was Christmas proper, and so we acknowledged Christmas twice. As I remember those long ago times spent with people long past, I relish my blessing. I sit at the window writing, warm crackles from the wood fire I’ve just stoked.  Outdoors it’s six degrees. Snow drifts and broken branches litter the road as the wind makes mischief.  The sun already slides downward and only lights the tallest pines with gold at the very top. I haven’t seen a bird, or an animal track for days. Everyone is hunkered down.  And so it should be for me, as well. May all beings be warm .



when the cold wind

shakes billows of snow

from each branch

When the light spills

gold onto tree tops

while we are in shadow.

Take time to rest, to linger within.

Find the balance that quiet

and  still nights can offer.







About elainereardon

Poet, writer, gardener, herbalist, beginner artist- pottery, painting—communing with Spirits of the Forest and Field, bumping into magic, peeking around new corners.
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