Christmas Morning

Christmas morning—

a Fraser fir tucked in the corner,

Grandma’s buttery cookies on the counter

stockings hung from the mantle.

I’m coming home for Christmas.

Flying home Christmas morning,

over the tip of the wing

I’ll catch that first glimpse

of the city I love.

On Christmas morning,

I’ll be scanning the landscape,

for that one particular dot;

even high is the sky,

I’ll now it is the place I call home.

There’s no place like home,

especially for Christmas.

© 2012 Catherine Giordano

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