To open a window in December
is to hear the winter sing.
The sky sends down its frosted bells
to coat the cooling ground,
and I watch in fern-green envy
as it gently drifts to sleep.
The world is a candied heartbeat,
swelling with holiday spirit
at the rise of every note.
They tell you
that if you listen very closely,
it will call for you to sing along—
but the song rests on the listener’s ear,
and mine can’t hear a thing.
At times, the air is masked
with the beat of drumming voices.
It’s not so quiet in my house,
and a pulsing mind is little better.
I cannot venture out the door
without some cheerful command
to be merry, happy, good, or else—
and I smile as best I can.
I lift my hand to wave
as any friendly neighbor should.
I return the kindly wishes,
and I’d like to think they’re honest.
It’s hard to know without the music.
If I had a song inside my head,
would the winter want to listen?
It wouldn’t be the kind of song
the snow would blush in pride
to call its own.
It would question why I feel so numb
when the bells feel so much joy;
and it would wonder why I always sigh
and circle to a blank refrain.
I wouldn’t want to sing it,
and that’s why I have no song.
I never learned to mend
the shattered record on the shelf.
I used to have a song to sing,
and it was loud, bright, and glad.
I was never one for silent nights.
Peace was all I’d ever known,
and I had never heard the tune of loss.
But when I set that crimson table
and watched the numbers around it shrink,
I found my heart in empty places
where the beat was just as hollow.
There is always that drumbeat,
making no melodies with its rhythm.
A throbbing hole,
deaf to the world.
To open a window in December
is to hear the winter sing—
but to open Christmas gates in heaven
will be to hear creation thunder.
If winter’s music gives a taste,
dreams of the future race the beat of my pulse.
I often wonder
how the whole of the blissful realm
will hold the songs of every tongue,
but I needn’t fear the Composer’s might.
I will learn to sing again;
but for now,
perhaps heaven will lend me a song.
Cindy Green is a forest-wandering, poetry-scribbling stargazer with messy notebooks and messy thoughts. Despite her love for all of God’s creation, sunflowers and stars in particular have a way of sneaking into both her writing and her heart (but you won’t hear her complaining about it). She is an amateur sword-wielder with a Highland-dancing warrior spirit who also writes letters to the moon and considers the sky her best friend. A focused daydreamer, organized pack rat, and oblivious observer, she is a self-professing ambivert (or a living contradiction) who deeply feels both the beauty and fallen state of the world. Through her words, she hopes to describe the indescribable and form personal connections with people while reflecting a love for her Savior and a passion for everything she touches.