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