The Season   The cradle seems closer somehow. The star, his face, his smile more radiant as the first snow covers the rooftops. He becomes each child ‒ who utters magical peals of laughter.   A child so far away, so long ago, a fairy tale ‒ to rouse in me such innocent longing. What mystical potency do these stories hold to cast such a spell this time each year?   I almost believe. I almost feel a power ‒ a spirit stirs within me. My soul feels more accepting; my eyes perceive life as more precious ‒ How long
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