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.
This is so precious. Thank you for sharing Cindy!
Thank you for reading 🙂
“Perhaps heaven will lend me a song.”
Heaven lent us you, Cindy.
Wow. This is gorgeous! I love the last line!
It’s my favourite one, too. 🙂
Beautiful poem, Cindy!
Thank you!
This is so beautifully written!
*grins* You’re very kind.
I love this! I don’t really know what to say. It so beautifully contrasts the cheer of winter and the sadness you can feel and ends on a note of hope. I love how you kept coming back to the idea of a song. I’m a self-proclaimed music nerd, and I could easily hear what the things you described might sound like. Thank you for another beautiful poem.
I’m so glad the music feel came through! Thank you for another encouraging comment. 🙂
I love your poetry, Cindy…you have such a way with words. I got tingles all over when I read this…it’s so beautiful.
*cries*
*cries with happiness*
Cindy, Christmas is my favorite time of year and when you wrote a Christmas poem it was just about the best thing ever. 😍🎄This poem melts my heart and leaves a puddle of tears at my feet. 😭
*hugs you*
A poem that stirs the heart, rings with
truth and gives a smile is all ways beautiful.
Great job!
And a poetic comment is always beautiful, too. 🙂 Thank you!
The poem really hit me, similar to how a punch in the face would feel, and I have a very good friend, who is good at punching. But either way the song hit me with
“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.”
The part with The crimson table really hit me. because it can show that you have lost people and that has numb you of your joyfulness during Christmas. But I like the little hope at the end with the maybe Christ will help me song again.
I know you probably get a ton of other comments saying that this was just a amazing poem, but it really is.
And I hope your Christmas isn’t like this poem; I hope instead it’s filled with friends and family and opening presents and lots of singing.
Because I think I know some people whose Christmas is a little like this poem, yet they’re always happy. Now it makes me wonder if they’re faking it. So it doesn’t appear that they’re faking a song…
Sorry! Didn’t mean to put my troubled thoughts on you! Have a merry Christmas!
THis poem. . .
You did a great job, Cindy!!!!
This year I get the feeling you described at the beginning of it so often.
As if nothing right, everything used to be but it shattered.
I love the way you spoke it!!
I love the ending!!!!