The porch is still, the cold is mild,
A starlit tree burns bright and wild.
He sits in plaid, in Santa red,
Warm breath like prayer above his head.
Then golden angels, puppy small,
With wings and halos, drift and fall.
They circle close, a silent choir,
And comb his fur with threads of fire.
Green wreath, pine scent, the presents wait,
Love holds the door, it is never late.
Stories Past Present Future 