A Christmas Poem, 2019

‘Twas the night before Christmas,

and all through the house, the story goes

that I read to my grandchildren at bedtime

this Christmas Eve, a proper story,

not a creature was stirring,

not even a mouse, though it wasn’t true,

as I’d seen one scurry across the room

and under the Christmas tree just

after dinner as we gathered for one present,

our Christmas Eve tradition, one gift

from grandparents, one gift to carry off to bed,

visions of sugarplums no longer dancing

in their heads, nothing to stave off

the excitement of Christmas Eve keeping them awake,

an eagerness we all felt, even the adults among us,

waiting for them to sleep and fulfill our role

as Santa, last minute gifts to wrap, toys to assemble,

packages taken from where we'd hid them and placed

under the tree, cookies to eat and milk to drink,

to finish off the ruse of Santa’s visit,

right down to the sleigh bells ringing

as from the roof signaling his arrival.

And the mouse, no one else saw him, stirred again

in the silence of the room as I sat there

finishing the cookies and milk, and a glass of wine,

Santa that I was, alone now as the others

climbed the stairs to their beds to settle

themselves down for a long winter’s nap,

their soft footfalls above my head,

eager for Santa’s appearance at our home,

dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot.

His tiny gray face poking out

from among the packages stared at me,

wondering himself this holy night, eager, too,

and waiting, his tiny black nose twitching,

some form of rodent communication, communing.

Hey, I said softly so’s not to break the silence

of the room, not to be heard by those asleep,

not a creature was stirring, not even you,

my little mouse friend; what keeps you up

this Christmas Eve, up and about

here among the wrapping paper and satin

bows below these twinkling lights? 

In answer, he scurried from his hiding place

to the little table, where stood a milk-filmed

glass and a plate of cookie crumbs, nibbling, now,

I noticed, the crumbs I’d dropped, perhaps

intentionally, to share with him this Christmas Eve

stirring, stirring myself, sleep not easily

coming on this holiday night, the expectation

of the morrow too great to sleep,

the packages torn asunder, the stockings,

once hung by the chimney with care, dumped

onto the floor and rifled through,

and the goose even, stuffed and cooked,

awaiting the carving knife and the company

of potatoes, white and sweet, whipped,

and steamed and boiled peas and beans

and squash, those little onions my mother liked,

and the hot rolls with honey butter melting,

dripping; our appetites sated, our bellies full,

the pies and cakes and cookies would be saved

for later’s coffee, the day winding down,

a meal begun with our hands joined and our heads

bowed in prayer, a blessing for the day

and for the season, for the Christ-child born,

for the peace of this evening now, a stirring mouse

and I, our own anticipation of families joined

around the Christmas tree and the holiday traditions,

another year behind, another year ahead.

So I raised my glass to him, the last gulp of wine

quaffed, and he finishing the last of the crumbs

I’d dropped, to us, my wee friend stirring, 

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.