Late Christmas Eve
and, by the light of the tree,
I sit in the living room writing.
The final CD ends;
quiet settles about me like an old wool afghan.

So this is actually it–
that about which we've endlessly sung–
the silent night.

I stop writing to await what certainly must follow–
the holy night.

Will I recognize its arrival?
Will the candles flare? the tree lights brighten? 
    golden fog flow under the door,
    seep in around the windows?
Or does holiness roar in like an ocean wave,
    sweeping up the hallway,
    stripping bare the walls,
    lifting me from my chair?
Or is it born somewhere within,
    conceived in the womb of a middle-aged man's heart,
    spreading outward on boulevards of blood,
    on an internet of nerves?

I close my eyes.
I hold my breath.
I wait. 

Text and image © 2011 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.