last Christmas I gave you my heart
this year I am giving myself the world

last Christmas you gave my heart away
this year my heart is in the right place

On a snowy evening when the cold wind swirls
We sit quietly thinking of the boys and girls
And the excitement the early morning will bring
As the joy spreads rippling while the children sing.

Years ago we too were lost in the maze
And foggy wonderment of those fleeting days
When sleepy-eyed we longed to stay awake
To see the jolly red giant and to partake
In the mystery of the spell only he could spin
But sandy-eyed we fell asleep again.

Quiet and still the winter night was hushed
As I looked around the room and rushed
Into the fireside glow where the glittering tree
Displayed its presence and huddled there for me,
My dreams and wants, I shook with all my joy
And rushed around the tree, clutching at each toy.

My sister wandered in still yawning.
We knew we’d never wait for morning
And Mom would call us to the window to peer
Into the night for St. Nick and his reindeer.
The wonder of those times still brings delight
It’s truly magical, the love of this special night.
            .
            .
            .
Christmas morning, my daughter’s still asleep,
Too young to understand the memories we keep
Locked away for this very time of year
When Santa loads his sleigh with all his gear
And sets his flight for all the world around,
Returns again with not even a pause or sound.

The wonder of this night is strong in my mind.
We hope and want for her, a feeling just as kind
Full of mystery, wonder and joy without bounds
The night each year when Santa comes to town.

somedays it seems very clear
that December is never dear
to me.

snow-kissed branches outreached
atop snow-kissed mounds of cold

crystals gently laying themselves
upon the silent earth outside.
a silence that can only be heard
when all shelter from the
falling flakes outside.
- - -
winter after winter
i always wish as it draws nearer

for a family warming their toes
around a crackling hearth adorned
with red stockings and an initial
of our names on each.

to be drinking mulled cider
and mull over musings of the
yesteryear together. all while
sneaking glances at the neatly
wrapped boxes underneath the
Christmas tree we wreathed a
day after Thanksgiving.
- - -
but my winters have no snow
and no Christmases worth
watching through a window.
my family is myself
and myself is sorrow.