The Night Before Christmas, 2016

At the lake, Christmas and snow complete the season,

but what if, as I suspect, this year the lake doesn’t freeze,

nor any snow fall to the ground, nothing there to insulate us

from the arctic wind that blows across the water,

an element we bundle warm against this season of cold,

our collars pulled up tight around our ears.

And the child in me, bundled so, wonders about Santa’s sleigh,

how this lack of snow and ice impedes his arrival.

Surely, the runners will tear at the shingles of my roof,

the damage, too, of restless reindeer hooves;

these thoughts will keep me awake as Santa makes his rounds,

and I fear again that same old threat my parents employed

to make me sleep on Christmas Eve:

“Santa won’t come if you aren’t sleeping.”

I can imagine, now, his sleigh thudding down onto my roof,

the scrape of steel pulled over asphalt,

the trampling of tiny hooves; and with no snow

to muffle the landing, this sleigh full of toys

and the prancing and pawing of each little hoof

will undoubtedly wake the dog, set off her alarm

to keep us safe and scare Santa away,

lifting off to the Christmas sky without a descent

down my chimney and magically appearing

in my living room, this right jolly old elf,

twinkling eyes and nose like a cherry.

Oddly, though, this intruder has never woken her in past years,

no interloper alerting her to stir me from my sugarplum dreams;

I’ve just accepted no warning bark, no alarm sounding,

just as I accepted the evidence of Santa’s visit

under the tree the next morning, awestruck, ribbons and bows

and presents, the stockings full, as it’s always been

after a Christmas Eve’s restful sleep, believing and unafraid.

Despite that, this year, perhaps, my fears will be realized,

no boxes and bows and ribbons, only empty stockings

left hanging on a cold fireplace. No Christmas

this year, if there is no snow, only that arctic wind blowing,

bundling up to shut it out. A Christmas without snow,

no insulation to shelter me from the adult that I have become,

believing still - wanting to - yet worried about the roof,

the shingles, a dog that doesn’t bark when the security

of my home is breached by a stranger in red

suddenly appearing down my chimney, and she

setting off no alarm, no warning; that dread alone

will keep me awake this year without snow,

a Christmas morning spent around an empty tree,

that age old threat come true:

“Santa won’t come if you aren’t sleeping.”