outside my cottage window,
reclaiming its light.
I wander about my warm shelter,
softly gleaming with Christmas lights.
Soon, friends will arrive,
stomping their feet on the porch,
blowing frosty air as they burst across the
threshold,
bearing sustenance and joy.
I wonder as I wait.
Is this how He feels?
Is the table laid?
Are the place cards placed?
Does He wait in quiet joy
for us to burst the gates,
bearing our gifts?