Deborah and Aisling 36 seconds ago
Once, the world felt boundless,
each snowflake a secret, each light a star’s whisper.
The scent of pine held stories,
and the air hummed with the promise of miracles.
Now, the ache of memory stirs,
a quiet yearning for what was,
not the gifts or glitter,
but the wonder—the way time slowed
under the glow of a lit tree.
Yet still, the season breathes softly,
offering its own kind of magic:
the laughter of loved ones,
the sparkle of frost at dawn,
the warmth of hearts meeting in love.
In these moments, the child within stirs—
not lost, but waiting,
ready to see again with wide eyes,
the quiet miracle of now.
each snowflake a secret, each light a star’s whisper.
The scent of pine held stories,
and the air hummed with the promise of miracles.
Now, the ache of memory stirs,
a quiet yearning for what was,
not the gifts or glitter,
but the wonder—the way time slowed
under the glow of a lit tree.
Yet still, the season breathes softly,
offering its own kind of magic:
the laughter of loved ones,
the sparkle of frost at dawn,
the warmth of hearts meeting in love.
In these moments, the child within stirs—
not lost, but waiting,
ready to see again with wide eyes,
the quiet miracle of now.
