The Pace of Christmas Morning: a poem

 

The Pace of Christmas Morning

 

The only sounds I hear
are the creak of my boots
on the layer of snow atop the sidewalk
this Christmas morning

and the squeak of my hood
against my winter hat,
a child’s multi-colored knit beanie with
double pom-poms sewn on top like ears. 

A small crabapple leans in towards me
as I walk south to the end of the street,
its branches reaching barely above my head,
berries clinging in the slight wind. 

As I reach the end of the street and
turn around, I face my own boot prints.
I walk where my own feet have trod. 

My toes touch heel prints,
my heels press where my toes
once met the snow over the concrete. 

My pace is less than my usual two-foot length
toe-to-toe, the small patches
of snow and ice keeping me cautious.   

This specific length is one I know because
my boss the soil professor had me measure

the distance of my regular pace
during my freshman year of college
in order to mark out his research plots, 

two feet being the same length
my son nearly stretched
from head to toe the day he was born. 

But today he stretches far above me,
far above every member of the family
nestled back at my parents’ house 

where I am headed. He is almost as tall
as this crabapple tree I greet a second
time as I walk beneath berry-laden
branches now covered in snow. 

The flakes, bright fat clusters falling happily,
cling to everything they touch, whitening the
landscape, tapping me on my shoulders, my glasses, 

saying oh happy day, happy morning, today
is a day to gather as I reach the door behind which
my family sits, our own cluster of happy celebration,
feet tucked in socks, hands wrapped around coffee cups, 

Christmas the easy pace of the day.

 ***

 by Tansy Julie the Soaring Eagle Paschold

written 12.25.23

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If you liked this, check out my book Horizons!  Found on Atmosphere Press website or email me at jpaschold @ gmail.com for a signed copy 

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