I am up before the sun because I want to be
(and because a three-year-old stole my pillow
out from under my head)
but mostly because I want to be:
the cinnamon rolls are ready to be rolled
and no one will have the patience to do it
once my household awakes and remembers
today is Christmas.
And so, I have that rarest of gifts–
a quiet hour, alone, at home,
with no one but our ancient cat to tug
at my attention–
a quiet hour now, amidst the
rush and bustle of holidays with children–
a quiet hour to contemplate
the mysteries of the season:
the strength of a woman long ago
to birth a child in a foreign place;
the urgency of welcoming the stranger
to our hearth and to our home;
the effort required of me– and you–
to bring about true peace on earth;
how difficult it is to wait
for days, for years, for centuries or more
until that thing you're wanting
comes to pass
poem and photograph (c) 2018 D. Ohlandt
please only reprint in entirety and with credit given