A Christmas Poem

Christmas Eve and his sleigh bells

jangled outside my windows, frosted over,

crystalized cold; and a shadow crossed the panes.

Snow, too, was falling, lightly, the air crisp

and cold, unmuffled; his sleigh bells

clearly I could hear, and the whoosh of his sleigh

rising above my roof, to settle there,

the footfalls of hooves, touching down,

the ache of leather harnesses stretching

taut, groaning in the winter air. 

Or was I dreaming, a Christmas dream, this adult in me

still wanting to believe, believe what years ago

they told me wasn’t true, that Santa

was but a story to outgrow, a story told to children

eager for Christmas morning, even as I lay here now,

eager still, my thoughts drifting away

and back to childhood, my own childhood

of Santa Claus and Christmas trees,

presents wrapped and bowed, believing, as I always have,

they came from Santa, the North Pole,

delivered down my chimney while I slept,

Santa at the mall upon whose lap I sat,

detailed list ready, recited, believing

and hoping as, my stocking hung, into bed I climbed,

early, without fuss, Christmas Eve, eager

with sleep not coming, not then, not now,
laying here, restless and listening, hearing

the sleigh bells jangle outside my window,

footfalls of hooves soft and the ache

of leather harnesses stretched taut

groaning in the winter air.