I’m in Manhattan for my writing.

Every street feels like a heartbeat of wonder —

glowing, golden, alive.

Lights dance across the windows,

carolers sing at the corners,

and the air smells of roasted chestnuts and new beginnings.

At Rockefeller Center, the great tree rises

like a cathedral made of stars.

The ice rink below glimmers with laughter,

skaters tracing circles of light in the cold evening air.

I walk through Bryant Park —

snow falling softly, as if the world remembers how to dream.

This city doesn’t just celebrate Christmas;

it becomes Christmas.

Every step feels like a page I was meant to write —

and tonight,

under a sky filled with silent flakes,

I finally understand:

light doesn’t come from above.

It lives in us.

RoseBloom 🌹 copyright © 2025

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