Sunrise, Christmas Eve Morning
This is a secret season—
the squirrels sense it, souls stirred
by leaf-rustle and bare-branched sighs,
the clouds are pewter cups
spinning without saucers
till they rest on a blue expanse,
as if waiting
for the party to begin,
and so, there is light,
ancient and always
there, our own bright star, rising
a reveille
the frosted ground echoes
with a thousand small, sparkling stars.
The Oracle gave me this message quickly today. She knows it’s a busy day and season (and I will catch up with reading when I can.) The sun is just up, but not doing too much here, as it is 7 F, as I’m writing this. Wishing all of you a happy holiday season–and some sparkles–whatever you celebrate and wherever.
Yesterday and today: Merril's historical musings 
A beautiful Christmas Eve poem with many metaphors. Love it!
Absolutely beautiful. May blessings abound. ❤️
Thank you so much, Gwen. Happy Holidays to you!
happy Christmas!
Thank you! And to you!
Beautifully described. 🙂
Thank you so much! 😊
You are welcome. 🙂
I’m hopeful that my bright star will rise!
I hope os, Liz. Merry Christmas!
Merry Christmas, Merril!
😊
❤
Thank you, Ken. Merry Christmas! 💙
So lovely and timely! Happy holidays!
Thank you so much, Rene! Happy holidays to you, too!
Thank you Merril, it was good, cold even here. 🥶
You’re welcome, Rene. 😊
😊
‘clouds are pewter cups spinning without saucers’ Lovely.
Thank you so much, Tricia! 😊
Gorgeous imagery!
We might have been watching the same scene from different sides of the bay. On one side was warm sunshine, and over the spit of land, it was snowing 🙂
Thank you!
I love that idea. 💙
It seems to fit with our virtual reality 🙂
😊
Brrr, but your poem warmed me.
Is that a Redon painting?
I look forward next year to a new book of poetry.
🖊🪄💙
Thank you, Resa.
Yes, Redon–Apollo’s chariot.