Gifts (Poetry)

I would bring him candleglow —
a flame burning steady
boxed in a welcome window
its golden beacon streaming out across
December snow —
a comfort in the night.

I would bring him moonshine —
chill with old-world wonder
and silvering the path of mortal dreams —
a blue-white haze where thin
slanting beams of fantasy
link solid earth to heaven.

I would bring him dawn’s first rays —
the gathering of light on the horizon —
that glimpse of hope
the mountains stretch to touch
a crystal in the sun
melting darkness from the sky.