Maybe there's no magic to the morning.
Eventually, life's a losing game.
Rituals go stale with little warning.
Revelation shrivels to a name.
Yet once each moment was a miracle.
Christmas touched the unsuspecting heart,
Home and Heaven equally empirical,
Reality a play of sense and art.
In everyone that child is still dreaming,
Still living in a world shaped by desire.
Truth is not the fruit of sense but meaning,
More varied than one's reason might require.
As sunlight gleams according to one's view,
So may the magic of this day touch you.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon. Free for personal or non-commercial use.