These coldest longest days as the year draws to its close
the ghosts of christmases past and present wend through my troubled mind
calling calling, come home, come home, there is a savior…
is home the place of your heart, your youth, your blood, or your art?
a fireplace glows in the back of mind, snow piles high on those half buried windows
the stillness of daybreak in the little valley, the crunch of snow
and I wonder is it merely a fairytale or a story true
that someone was born and died for you?
I listen with my heart, but my mind is rootless and wanders
through memories and across barren snowy fields
trying to find a home like the snowflakes on the breeze, waiting to land below.