“A Poets Christmas poem”

In a lamplight hush by a frosted sill,  
A poet sits, mid-December still;  
Quill in hand, with a steaming cup,  
He weaves his words, while snow stacks up.

Outside, the world is a silent scroll—  
Ink of midnight on linen coal—  
Pines bow low, with their shimmering coats,  
And moonlight carols in silver notes.

He writes of stars strung high, bright threads,  
Of laughter tangled in old sleds;  
The crackle of fires in hearthstone’s heart,  
And secrets wrapped beneath bows and art.

Each stanza wreathes evergreen dreams,  
Or gingerbread hopes and peppermint themes;  
Lines drift like snowflakes, small and light—  
Miracles spun from the longest night.

He shapes old wishes, warm and near,  
Gifts of kindness—this time of year—  
A verse for the lonely, a rhyme for the lost,  
Stanzas stitched gently, no matter the cost.

His Christmas isn’t tinsel or gold,  
But glimmers in stories softly told;  
Where joy is kindled—slow, then bright—  
A poet’s Christmas, penned by candlelight.

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