12/09/2025
The calendar flips to December's first snow, The world outside starts to shimmer and glow. But inside our haven, the lighting is dim, As we measure the feed and monitor him.
The garland is hung, but beside it, we see, A tangle of tubes from the IV tree. The stockings are hung by the chimney with care, Near the pump that keeps beeping its constant fanfare.
We dream of the carols, the pageants, the lights, But are tethered to monitors through long, lonely nights. No bustling airport, no long winter drive, Just praying our little one manages to thrive.
The scent of pine needles, sweet nutmeg, and spice, Is mixed with the sterile and comforting nice Of the hospital halls, or the scent of the home Where the nurses and doctors so frequently roam.
We try to wrap joy in the packages small, And pretend that the world is not waiting to fall. We speak of St. Nick, and the magic he brings, While counting the breaths and the flutter of wings— The angels of mercy who hover so near, Dispelling the shadows and calming our fear.
The well-meaning glances, the pitying stare, "It must be so hard," they politely declare. But the love that we feel is a fierce, burning light, That turns the long watches of darkness to bright.
This child is the gift, though the packaging's frail, A miraculous soul on a perilous trail. So we hang up a star, not of tinsel and thread, But a hope that keeps shining, though weary the head.
And as Christmas arrives, a soft, fragile grace, We find holiday splendor right here in this place. For the spirit of giving is giving our all, And watching our dearest stand steady and tall.
~we fight for sage~