The lights have been hung 'round the eaves . . .
The wreath is on the door . . .
And there's a snowman 'round the corner of my little Christmas house.
Snow lays on the ground, on the trees and lumps into the window boxes while I peek out between the shutters to marvel at the
all-white world around me.
When I climb up to the attic I can look out to see for miles. Far away, a bit to the west and down in the valley I can see another house.
My son's house.
He built it when he was just eight years old . . . and it's been proved well made over these years. It lies in a drift on the valley floor, snug and solid and I can just make out his blue lights on his tree out front.
Lovely to have him so close for visits hearth side.
Tomorrow he can bring his mom some more logs for her fire if the day is fine. I'll be baking cookies in anticipation.
And now it's time to heat the milk, put out the cat, and brave the cold bed sheets. Night comes so early in December.
Goodnight little Christmas house.