[In my Grandmother’s homeland]

In my Grandmother’s homeland,

The Christmas room is readied

By the mothers and God’s angels

The evening before Christmas day.

Men and listening children

Wait for the ring of a bell,

hush, presents, crib, Christ Kind:

tree aspark and fizzing, in a cavern

so unknown but home.

Ah but before little hands can tear at tissue

Stille Nacht must be sung before the crib,

Two verses, slow as moonrise

Sung beside the candled tree.

It was so for my childhood too

When my eyes searched frantically,

blotted with beads of light,

for shadowed gifts.  As slowly

the strange words were sung

by few, familiar voices.

For some reason I remember this,

Not the torn tissue or even the treasure beneath.

My Grandmother says she saw

Angel’s feet once, through the key hole.

That was before she was old enough

To join their business in the living room.

She does not see them now.

After all, it was in the wait that we glimpsed magic.

We witnessed in the silence, the darkness and the secrecy

When to sense was to make ourselves believe.