Happy Holiday
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She’s been daydreaming about the North Pole,
making a nice naughty list.
She’s dressed in red. He’s a little green
but there’s brandy in the punch.
She smells like cinnamon and pine.
Light from the fire she built
reflects from her eyes
like baubles on the tree.
The sway of her sugar plums,
the aroma of her Christmas pie
promise them both
sweet and salty treats.
She is ageless, whatever age he wants
in the indirect lighting of his imagination,
shadows of serendipitous touching
softer than cotton balls.
His toy soldier is winding up.
Her ballerina tippy-toes.
They pull on the ribbon
and begin to unwrap presents.
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This poem appeared in The Broken City
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