I set myself a challenge to pen one Christmas poem a day.
There was a time when those mistletoe clusters hung like icicles.
Each berry, ripe, sung winter’s song deep into the night.
Its melody flew on ancient wings to soar across a snow-capped mountain.
There, eagles circled,
twisting and soaring.
A dance amid the white flakes and chill wind.
Now we bring the berries in,
to hang in cozy homes.
The fireside crackles,
and mulled wine warms,
as lips meet beneath the druid’s magic chimes.