And I sit alone on Christmas Eve, peering out the window at mountaintops I’ve climbed— at wilderness that discovered me when I couldn’t do it myself.

In the anticipation of good,
We celebrate the before.
The slowing down of the heart,
The loosening of the lungs,
The opening of the hands.

In gentle expectation,
We start to smile
We start to cringe, perhaps,
And we celebrate Eve.

We watch the horizon
For Christmas spirit,
Hoping that perhaps
Will fill our minds
Whilst Christmas morning
Will fill our stockings.

Somber anticipation,
The knowledge that
Life might not change
It might not be okay
There may not be joy.

But maybe there might be
And maybe there’s good
And caroled hope
And a little bit of humor
To relieve one worry.

Can anyone truly know
The taste of
The Eve of a miracle?
Or if there’s a daybefore
Good is no miracle at all.


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