The Imps of Yule Are At It Again

Oh, hush-

do you hear it?

That quicksilver giggle

slipping between the rafters,

that tiny scuffle of boots

far too small

to belong to anyone invited?

The Imps of Yule are out tonight,

braiding tinsel into the air itself,

tugging the tails of stray snowflakes

and sending them cartwheeling

in reckless delight.

The moon hangs low,

a silver troublemaker,

winking like it knows

every prank about to unfold.

And the stars?

Don’t get me started.

They’re sparkling far too brightly

to be innocent.

Inside, the fire pops sharply-

not in warning,

but in laughter,

as if it’s sharing a joke

with the woodpile.

The flames sway in mischief,

casting shadows shaped

suspiciously like hats tipping

and small boots leaping

across the walls.

Someone swears

their cocoa moved on its own.

Someone else claims

a marshmallow winked.

And the ribbons?

They’ve begun tying themselves,

wrapping gifts

with a dramatic flourish

no human could ever muster.

Even the evergreen trembles-

not from the draft,

but from the tickling of something

unseen and wildly gleeful

climbing through its branches

like a festive acrobat.

Outside, the snow has joined in,

falling in plump, theatrical flakes

that land on the windows

with great ceremony-

each one declaring,

“Behold! I have arrived!”

Laughter erupts,

quick and bright,

as if joy itself has grown impatient

and refuses to wait

for permission to enter.

It spills across the room

like a runaway sleigh,

pulling everyone along for the ride.

And just when the night feels

on the edge of tipping

into absolute chaos-

the candles steady,

their flames settling

into soft, benevolent grins.

For even Yule’s wildest magic

knows when to soften,

when to let warmth

slip quietly between the jokes.

By dawn,

the imps will scatter-

leaving behind only

a few suspiciously perfect bows,

a cocoa mug that appears

mysteriously refilled,

and the faintest trace

of giggles in the corners.

But you’ll know.

You’ll feel the sparkle

in your bones all day,

that twinkle on your tongue

as if you’ve bitten into starlight.

Because mischief-

gentle, glittering mischief-

is part of the season’s pulse.

And tonight, it danced

right through you.