It can start with a flurry,
with the very first flake to fall.
Gloved hands and rosy cheeks,
It can start with a note,
weather noticed or not.
A simple piece of music,
that ignites the familiar spark.
It can start with a tree,
standing perfect and naked.
As with an outstretched hand,
the first colored ball goes on.
It can start with a memory,
of days long since past.
Of wanting to feel some warmth,
finding none there.
We gather as our ancestors did,
in ritual to banish the darkness.
To draw close those we cherish most,
to spread a little cheer.