My old Christmases are packed away
In the dusty corrugated boxes of my memory.
Their glossy paints of red and green are chipped and cracked.
A bent and twisted tinsel star that once shone
From the high promontory of a bushy fir
Now peeks from one broken corner.
Glass balls in there, some cracked, but many still
Perfect mirror spheres nest together like unhatched eggs.
Long thin strands of glossy crumpled tin strew amongst these baubles,
Once hung in glittering cascades in the dark recesses of the tree.
The candy canes, the cookies with their bright icing
Are long ago consumed. But strings of colored tinsel disks
Weave amongst the other decorations.
Christmas is a children’s time.
Their world is still abundant with mystery and wonder,
And with delicious things to eat and surprises.
But, holding my ear close to these old boxes,
I can still hear
The clack of tiny hooves against the clouds.