Christmas Morning

The morning comes before the world is loud,
Before the day remembers what it’s vowed.
Light slips in soft, not trying to impress,
Just resting gently on the window’s dress.

The house still holds its breath from hours before,
When footsteps faded quiet to the floor.
Wrapping paper waits in patient stacks,
Creased corners bent where careful fingers lacked.

The coffee brews like something meant to stay,
A steady warmth to ease the coming day.
The clock ticks on, but no one seems to mind,
As if time learned to move a step behind.

A child wakes first, already halfway dressed,
Hope beating faster than the need for rest.
They pause, unsure, then tiptoe down the hall,
Afraid that joy might vanish if they call.

The tree stands lit, unchanged from late last night,
Its glow less staged, more honest in the light.
Ornaments reflect the room awake,
Each year still present, none pushed aside or fake.

Footsteps follow, slower, heavier, real,
Adults who carry more than they reveal.
They smile wide, but softer than before,
Knowing what the morning asks them for.

The gifts are opened not in frantic haste,
But with the care of something meant to last.
Paper tears, but not without restraint—
Even joy respects the things it breaks.

Laughter rises, settles, rises again,
Unscripted moments no one tries to pen.
A joke repeats, a story loses track,
Yet somehow lands exactly where it’s at.

Someone forgets to film the moment right,
Someone else doesn’t care enough to fight.
The memory stores itself without a lens,
Filed somewhere deeper than the need to send.

The food arrives a little late, uneven,
Because the morning never sticks to reason.
Plates get warm, the table fills its role,
Not with perfection — but with being whole.

Outside, the world resumes its distant hum,
But here, for now, there’s nowhere else to run.
No urgency, no push to be ahead,
Just presence passing freely where it’s led.

Christmas morning doesn’t ask for more,
It doesn’t measure what the night was for.
It simply shows what still survives the year—
That love, when unannounced, is always here.

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