Christmas, 1995, Paris

And we would gather near the tree,

Bathed in light, both wild and free,

Each bulb a tiny, trembling sun,

A fleeting glow when day is done.

The scent of pine, the crackling air,

A fragile calm beyond compare,

A moment caught in whispered cheer,

The world beyond dissolved, unclear.

For gifts are wrapped in ribbons thin,

But truer treasures dwell within:

The echo of a fleeting song,

The knowing glance where hearts belong.

We'd wait for midnight’s quiet hum,

The tolling bell, the moment come,

Unknowing then what made it art—

That waiting, hoping, holds the heart.