Ark of the Lost Angels

_{Credit: Author}

Inspired by Midnight Mass by Tom Chaplin

The spirit of the season asks much of us,
Open hearts,
A willingness to be seen,
Love without reservation,
And belief in magic and joy. 

Candles and commemoration.
Dancing and celebration.
Passages and hymns.
Trees and presents.
Family meals and dazzling lights.
Trappings of the season
Whose meaning we’ve all but forgot.

The curse of age is wisdom,
Wisdom obscures the magic.
Too often we demand the children grow up,
And miss what they know of this season.
How they resonate the joy we laud,
And believe in the peace on earth we dismiss.
When did hope become something to grow out of?

The magic of the season is found in the frivolity we think foolish,
Found within childhood stories we dismissed,
That can revive long-dead belief in miserly hearts,
As a reminder that we are not so above
What made life so fantastic for us as children.

The magic of Christmas is found,
In the quiet hours we spend tonight,
And the time with those we love,
Living comfortable traditions
The way the snow falls gently from the sky
To blanket the Earth and quiet the sounds
Of the frantic, frenzied lives that flay and fray our minds.

The spirit of the season is joy in light only we can shine
So long as we remember the magic of Christmas,
Just like the children already know.