christmas in my house

Like a voyeur
in my own home,
I peer from the dimness
of a separate room,
through the French doors,
on my husband
at his morning prayers
bathed in warmth,
an angel observing
from over his shoulder,
a seraph with three wings--
one in each hand
and one under her feet.
The sun streams in from the east,
spotlighting stockings all hung
by the chimney with care,
each stitched with a love
predating the first child’s birth,
the eternal circle of evergreen
dotted with blood drop berries
gracing it all.

This is home:
a hearth and a history,
a wing and a prayer.

Liz McFadzean