He slid down
the Sunday hill, below
his house in Vermont.
In a distant church
an organ proclaimed
it was Christmas.
The boy walked on
with his sled,
blown by the wind.
The pews were half-full
as the 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
along the horizon.
The thick flakes
and his cold walk
had become A Question.
“Silent Night” began
and the choir lit
its candles
as the boy rushed
up the steps outside
to open a tall oak door.
He entered with his boots,
red tuque and scarf,
moving 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 dress
played her violin as the hymn
burned brighter now.
Afterward, across the field
boy and man walked as one
in the fading light.
The steeple bell pealed
softly behind them as they
climbed the hill to home.