Christmas Day

A low flute plays from somewhere in the misty hills,
a woman sings,
five long tones in an unknown tongue
in random sequence,
a solemn hymn,
over and over the melody drifting,
a carol to mystery,
a lullaby,
the forest sighing remembered
shepherd melodies, perhaps
mistaking silence as solitude
assuming quiet moments are privacy,
rocks shift comfortably,
shouldering warm blankets of green,
promises under snow
in soft beds of moss.

I hold my breath,
it is Christmas,
all creation seems alive with secrets,
as though life, an infant,
has been born anew.