This Christmas time it may be, 
that this simple thing, 
may be someone else’s, 
missing, everything. 
  
The early morning 
The torn wrapping 
The late lunch 
Grandma’s hunch 
  
The warm home 
One another 
Food to share 
Walks together 
  
For some 
None is there 
No gifts of care 
Food alone
A silent home 
  
So let the potatoes burn and gravy be lumpy 
Let eyes roll but hearts be happy 
Those divine hands that forged the earth are now
Tiny fingers round a thumb 
This simple thing that was to become the earths, 
missing, everything. 
  
Let our eyes see, ears hear, hearts be open
To the tiny moment, a gift from heaven 
For our simple thing, 
may be someone else’s, 
missing, everything.  
by Kate Fox Robinson

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