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White Christmas
Gilbert Allen

Greenville, South Carolina, 2010

Our first in fifty years,
we didn't wake to it.
Morphing from morning rain,
arriving in afternoon
it's lasted overnight
into this second day.
At dawn, no turtle doves
but cardinals and squirrels
adorn the swaddled trees.
The drystack wall's a widow
with black mascara streaks
that make you look for eyes.
For now, no eyes but mine
beholding early light—
that seems to grow within
each dogwood, maple, oak—
not flowing from the sky                     
but bursting from the earth
too full to hold it in,
too full to say a word.

© by Gilbert Allen.
Used with the author’s permission.

Gilbert Allen lives in the South Carolina foothills with his wife, Barbara, an educateor and environmental activist. He enjoy gardening, poetry readings, and visiting with family and friends. Gil's most recent books are Believing in Two Bodies and The Beasts of Belladonna. Read a recent interview with him here, and learn more about him at






Post New Comment:
Gilbert Allen:
Thanks, Lori. I'm glad the poem resonated with you.
Posted 12/26/2021 06:25 PM
Lori Levy:
Beautifully portrayed scene.
Posted 12/26/2021 03:07 PM
Gilbert Allen:
Thanks for your kind words. Enjoy the next ten days of Christmas!
Posted 12/26/2021 01:02 PM
Beautiful! I feel like I am there, and not in balmy December, 2021
Posted 12/26/2021 10:14 AM
Thank you, Gil, profoundly insightful about life, (not missing out on momentary pleasures), pregnant with description.
Posted 12/26/2021 08:37 AM

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