Elena Lee Johnson
The tree tinsel is whispering
in sparks of gold-white, rose-red, blue-orange
fire blown of silver breath.
A startled mourning dove whips free of sleep,
a scream of air under feathers, soft—
soft as snow thunders beneath our boots.
The world spreads its white desert presence
toward outer space. Bare trees flex wizened fingers—
ready to clap, to roar, to rejoice!
And we are waiting yet.
We all are waiting.
Already. But not yet.