As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, when they meet

Host: The night was velvet and alive — the kind that hums softly beneath the bones, heavy with the scent of snow, pine, and the distant bell of something ancient and kind. Streetlights blurred in the swirling flakes, turning the city into a snow globe where dreams and memories danced together.

Up on a weathered rooftop, under a sky brimming with stars, Jack and Jeeny stood wrapped in scarves, their breath rising in clouds of white. Around them, the world seemed paused — as if waiting for magic to return.

The Host’s voice emerged with a quiet, reverent rhythm — the sound of an old story retold in the language of the living.

Host: Tonight, the air carried more than chill — it carried the echo of a poem, of wonder and flight and faith in what we cannot see.

Jeeny: smiling softly as she looks up at the sky “Clement Clarke Moore wrote, ‘As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky. So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, with the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.’”

Jack: chuckles, brushing snow from his coat “A classic. The stuff of fireplaces and cocoa. But I never really understood it — why dry leaves? Why a hurricane?”

Jeeny: her breath visible in the cold “Because that’s what faith looks like. You take what seems lifeless — dry leaves — and you let the wind carry it beyond its limits.”

Jack: half-smiling “Or maybe it’s just a fancy way to describe chaos — everything spinning out of control, no direction, no anchor.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s movement. It’s transformation. Even chaos, when embraced, becomes flight.”

Jack: squints toward the skyline “You make a storm sound poetic.”

Jeeny: softly “Storms always are. They remind us that even destruction has rhythm.”

Host: A gust of wind swept across the rooftop, stirring snow into the air. For a moment, the flakes seemed to lift rather than fall, glimmering like tiny spirits breaking gravity.

Jack’s gray eyes followed them — his skepticism tempered by wonder, his logic momentarily humbled.

Jack: “You think Moore really believed in what he wrote? Reindeer, sleighs, St. Nicholas flying through hurricanes?”

Jeeny: “Maybe he didn’t have to believe in the story. Maybe he believed in what it did for people — that it made them remember awe.”

Jack: thoughtful “Awe. That’s a word we’ve lost.”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “Not lost. Just buried under too much certainty.”

Jack: “Certainty keeps us grounded.”

Jeeny: gently “And wonder helps us rise.”

Host: The moonlight slipped through the clouds, casting silver over the snow-covered roofs. In that glow, Jeeny looked like a figure carved from old myth — her eyes alight with conviction, her hands open to the cold.

Jack’s voice broke the silence — quieter now, touched by something unspoken.

Jack: “You know, I used to love that poem as a kid. I’d wait by the window on Christmas Eve, swearing I heard hooves on the roof. My dad told me belief was for children. Said the world runs on work, not wonder.”

Jeeny: gently “And did that make him happy?”

Jack: after a pause “No. It made him right.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe being right isn’t everything.”

Jack: looks down, a faint smile tugging at his mouth “You’d make a terrible cynic.”

Jeeny: “And you’d make a reluctant dreamer.”

Host: The wind softened again, carrying a sound — faint, musical, like the chime of distant bells. Both of them froze, the kind of stillness that only happens when the impossible becomes briefly plausible.

Jack glanced up at the sky — skeptical, but searching.

Jeeny’s eyes shone with quiet certainty.

Jeeny: whispering “You hear it?”

Jack: softly “Probably a church bell. Or... maybe...”

Jeeny: grinning “Maybe?”

Jack: smirks, conceding “Maybe magic.”

Jeeny: laughs softly “Exactly.”

Host: The snow fell harder now, a curtain of white cascading through the night. Around them, the city blurred — softened — until it looked almost like the painting of a memory.

Jack: after a long silence “You know what I think Moore really meant? That when something meets resistance — when it hits an obstacle — it either breaks or it rises. Those leaves... they didn’t crumble. They mounted to the sky. Maybe he was talking about us.”

Jeeny: smiling “You’re starting to sound like me.”

Jack: shrugs “Or maybe you’re just contagious.”

Jeeny: teasing “Belief usually is.”

Host: The stars above them shimmered brighter now, as if leaning closer to listen. The world below carried on — cars sliding through streets, lights flickering in windows — but up here, the two of them stood in a quieter dimension: part skepticism, part faith, all human.

Jeeny: “Maybe every storm in life — every wild hurricane — just wants to see if we’ll rise like the leaves, or cling to the ground.”

Jack: nods slowly “And maybe the sleigh’s just a metaphor. The part of us that carries joy even through the chaos.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And St. Nicholas?”

Jack: smiles faintly “Hope with a beard.”

Jeeny: laughing softly “I’ll take that.”

Host: They both laughed, the sound mingling with the hiss of snow against the rooftop. And then they grew quiet again, watching the flakes swirl upward as if remembering their own flight.

Jack: “You ever think we outgrow wonder, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: softly “No. We just forget where we left it.”

Jack: gazing upward “Then maybe tonight’s the reminder.”

Jeeny: “Maybe every winter is. The world dies a little — just enough to remember how to believe again.”

Jack: smiling faintly “You talk like the snow’s a sermon.”

Jeeny: “It is. The sky’s way of whispering: not all falling means failing.”

Host: The camera panned upward — the two figures small beneath the vast, trembling expanse of night.

And through the storm, Moore’s words seemed to return — not just as a Christmas verse, but as a philosophy of endurance and flight:

When the winds rise, rise with them.
Let your obstacles lift you.
Let the storm teach you motion.
Even the smallest leaf can touch the sky
if it dares to stop clinging to the ground.

Host: The snow swirled higher now, the flakes glittering like sparks of memory.

Below, the world slept. Above, the stars looked on — quiet witnesses to two souls rediscovering the ancient truth of the season:

that every act of wonder
is rebellion against despair.

And in that moment — fleeting, fragile, eternal —
even the dry leaves of the heart
found their way toward the sky.