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.
FootnotesOnLife 