I’d like to sit underneath the tree

Again

And wonder at the glare of blue bouncing off 

The fragile curve of glass

Of the small world

That I knew so well

With a tilted plastic angel

Looking over us



Warm by the fire

Not knowing how tomorrow

Would come

Or caring

But that it would

With green bows on red boxes

And maple syrup dripping down the sides

Of my French toast 

Sticking on my fingers



But my world grew larger

And somehow I grew smaller

And it stretched too far

Flattened and fell

Leaving bits and pieces

Stuck in the carpet



And I know where those presents

Come from

And my father doesn’t move from his chair

And the angel still sits

Ragged doll

Staring at me eye to eye



And I wonder more about the thief

Who comes in the night

Stealing 

While the angel doesn’t move from her

Pringly throne



Yet, what strange sound slips down the street

From behind those old wooden doors

At St. James round midnight

On Christmas Eve



Old women, little children, wearing reds and greens

Singing

Looking

Wondering

Upon a manger scene