He slid down the
Sunday hill below
his home in Vermont.
In a distant church
an organ proclaimed
it was Christmas.
The boy walked onward
with his sled,
blown by the wind.
The pews were half-full
as a choir entered
two-by-two.
Snow began to fall
upon the desolate field.
The boy kept his season alone.
Eternity was white
on the steeple spire
as “The Carol of the Bells” began.
A boy saw his shadow
on the snow, the sun low
near the horizon.
The thick flakes
and his cold trek
had become A Question.
“Silent Night” began
and the choir lit
its candles
as the boy rushed
up the steps outside
to a tall open oak door.
He entered with his boots,
scarf and tuque,
moving slowly up the aisle.
An old man at the back
of the church turned
to greet the boy
and held out a candle
to light the one
he offered him.
A girl in a black velvet dress
played her violin as the hymn
burned brighter now.
And afterward, across the field
boy and man walked as one
in the fading winter light.
The steeple bell pealed
softly behind them as they
climbed the hill for home.