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 can such enchantment linger?
From my third book – Echoes of Footsteps