She's an angel.
Purity,
serenity.

Her floating thoughts
touch us
when the snow falls
or when the winds circle
through the sky
beneath
the evening stars.

She knows not
how we miss her,
how we reach
with our hearts.

Nostalgia.

The winterlight
it shines so soft
on snow
and through our windows.
It's like the mornings,
waking up
and looking
on a sleeping baby's face.

I know you are up there
and happy.
But I would have laid the table
with love,
and more...

I would have sat here
reading stories
and watch with you
Santa coming through the door.

Be well
my fairy,
spirit,
little angel,
play happy
in that world that is so far
that tears bite in my eyes
when I try to go there,
reaching
for the brightest
winterstar.

© Imbi 2002

Each year at Christmas
I hear people talking
about what they've planned with their families.

I love to see the joy on their faces,
and enjoy hearing their stories.

But the Christmasspirit
has changed for me over the years
from looking up to the tree
in childlike amazement
to the deep pain in my heart
that I am one of those people
who never can have
a complete family around the table.

Even though
so many children's voices
fill the house,
I feel the emptiness
of missing beloved ones.

My father,
my grandmother,
and most of all:
Winnie and Jenny,
my babies
who've passed away too soon.