White feathers cover wings that cross the sky,
Descend, and land upon a wooden perch.
Clear eyes watch through a window. People fly
To decorate their tree, wrap gifts, and search
For memories of Christmases gone by.
Another landing spot outside a church
Reveals the melodies of carols. High,
Imperfect voices, singing softly, lurch
From note to note, and wonder if their sound
Will touch a chord of greater harmony.
Beneath a twinkling streetlight, on the ground,
A man’s unfocused eyes look up to see
A glint of hope within the stars, unbound
By hints of distant hymns, whose symphony
Is floating on a wind the wings had found.
As if in answer to a tacit plea,
The man begins to walk, his sight aligned.
He gathers up the memories that he
Has held inside, and hopes that he might find
What mercy holds for this long-absent one.
Clear eyes watch through a window. People dined
With thoughts bent on the past, but now they run
To meet it, knocking at their door, defined
By much regret. They welcome home their son.
White wings ascend this night of hope, now done.
It's become something of a personal, annual tradition for me to write a poem for Christmas. As with several previous ones, this poem feels more appropriate to share on Christmas Eve, rather than on Christmas Day. It's also an interesting example of how these poems evolve as they are written. In this case, I didn't realize this poem would be something of a modern take on the prodigal son story until I reached the fourth stanza.
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