What Christmas Is

It's kind of like waking up on a fresh, white winter day,
Like looking out the window, wishing work away,
And running out into the white, smiling the whole way
And making angels in the snow, and stopping there to lay.
It's kind of like hot chocolate, all warm and hot and sweet
Like making friends, then falling for, someone you somehow meet.
Like family stories around the fire, and the smell of burning wood.
And knowing then you feel the way you always new you would.
It's kind of like waking up and smelling winter air,
And breathing in the smells and scents of the world, white and bare.
Like singing songs of Yule-Tide cheer to strangers on the street,
Like sneaking cookies Christmas eve, or baking Santa's treat.
It's kind of like the feeling you get, letting paper tear
And pulling off the ribbons and strings to find what's hidden there.
Like seeing the pure, sincere reaction to a present that you give.
And remembering to be thankful for the life you get to live.
It's kind of like a memory repeated each new year,
Like something new and something old but full of the same cheer.
But most of all it always is the same kind of holiday.
The one you celebrate, then wait, counting every day.
You can listen to the music, the reports, and buy all in,
You can watch the Christmas movies, each one that has been filmed.
But don't base this off of all the things you're told by big show biz-
Love and family, hope and joy-- that's what Christmas is.