The twenty-first, the winter’s door,  
The chill of frost, the snow’s encore.  
The world lies wrapped in icy lace,  
A frozen breath, a tranquil face.  
The trees stand tall, their branches white,  
Their diamonds catch the morning light.  
The air is crisp, the silence deep,  
As nature curls itself to sleep.  
But in the quiet, hearts are warm,  
Awaiting love in Christmas form.  
The fires are lit, the candles glow,  
To banish cold, to let hearts know.  
That even in this winter’s chill,  
A spark of magic lingers still.  
The twenty-first, the world’s at rest,  
As Christmas nears with hope, its guest.