In that hour when the first pearl gray of dawn glints between the trees,
And bird shadows flutter and shift, lavender ghosts on the snow,
Every child—even the ones with aching bones and silver hair
Tinseled across their brows, even the ones who stayed up late
Building and wrapping and baking, even the ones who drove
Lonely roads or flew, who window-shopped and made lists
And mailed cards—children wake in that dim hour,
Hugging the promise of joy tight to their chests,
Whisper their secret hopes to the angels of the longest nights.
Everything is possible in that moment, every hurt soothed,
Every doomed dream breathing with new life.
We remember, when the still night closes around us,
Who we were before the world wore us down to fit.
We remember the thrill of story, the way songs
Threaded our bones. This moment, ripe with possibility,
Will fade as the sun breaks the horizon.
Joy leaking out into the world as a memory
Shared hand to hand between brothers and sisters,
Mothers and fathers and friends.
Joy passed as fingers brush and eyes meet
And hearts crack a little to let hope in.
c, 2015 Jennifer Crow