Expectancy

There is no evergreen tree, there are no twinkling lights nor reflecting glass ornaments, no strings of popcorn nor paper angels nor snow globes nor colorfully wrapped and beribboned packages—why then this glimmering abundance in my soul, this mountain of treasure unexpected, unearned? The walls are bare, as blank as snow, without tinsel or décor, the rooms empty of any furniture but of the barest necessity, one bed, one chair, one cupboard, one dresser—why then this fullness that crowds to the ceiling corners and beyond, spilling into the street and yard? What music is this that makes such heavenly harmony—the voice of the child, the bark of the dog, the long gate sliding on its runners with a sound like a bow on a taut bass string, the  klaxon pitching in, and of course the wind which claps the hands of the leaves? This choir sings the most ancient, the loveliest tune of all. It is the music that accompanies expectancy.