The trees, dark sentinels, whisper.

Christmas poems

Christmas Eve, Alone.

The hush of evening wraps the earth,

a shawl of stars spread thin.

The trees, dark sentinels, whisper

to no one but the wind.

In the stillness, the world

holds its breath.

Even the waves—

restless lovers of the shore—

lie quiet, as if waiting

for something holy.

Inside, the fire

is a small, brave heart.

It flickers its warmth

against the cavern of my solitude.

The shadows on the walls

are my only companions,

dancing their silent hymns.

I thought the night would weigh too heavy,

its silence too sharp,

but here I am—

a creature of quiet,

listening to the pulse

of the distant sea,

the creak of the old house

settling into itself.

If there is a gift tonight,

it is this:

to feel the ache

and still breathe it in.

To know the world waits,

soft and steady,

for the light to return.

---

The Empty Tree.

No gifts crowd its feet,

no ribbon spills in bright cascades,

only the quiet of bare branches,

the soft shadow it casts on the wall.

Once, it held light—

tiny stars strung along its limbs,

a chorus of color breaking the dark.

Now, it stands unadorned,

a sentinel in the corner,

its pine scent faint, fading.

What is a tree without its story?

No hands to place the ornaments,

no eyes to marvel at the glitter.

It waits, still and solemn,

as if hoping for someone to see it,

to whisper: You are enough.

And yet, in its stillness,

there is a kind of grace—

a reminder of what it once held,

and the promise it keeps

for next year.

---

The Christmas Lights.

They hum against the night,

tiny beacons strung in fragile hope,

each bulb a tender prayer

against the deep cold of winter.

Outside, the frost leans heavy

on the windows,

but the lights refuse to dim.

They blink and shimmer,

a small rebellion of color

in a world of gray.

Who strung them here?

Who wrapped them around the tree,

the roof, the porch rail?

Someone who believed

that light could carry a message,

that even the smallest glow

could break the longest shadow.

I watch them flicker,

steadfast and simple,

and wonder—

if I sit long enough

in their quiet company,

will they teach me

how to shine?