Xmas

Let midnight gather up the wind   
and the cry of tires on bitter snow.   
Let midnight call the cold dogs home,   
sleet in their fur—last one can blow   

the streetlights out.   If children sleep   
after the day’s unfoldings, the wheel   
of gifts and griefs, may their breathing   
ease the strange hollowness we feel.   

Let midnight draw whoever’s left   
to the grate where a burnt-out log unrolls   
low mutterings of smoke until   
a small fire wakes in its crib of coals.


Christmas Night, by  Conrad Hilberry