Tonight, the stockings came off
their hallowed hooks along the hearth
and now sit up like a cluster of newborns
wrapped tightly in swaddling clothes
and leaned against the sofa pillows
stuffed to the ruff with inconsequential
trinkets and sweets at midnight,
enduring winter’s eve like the
wildlife beyond the walls
just a few yards away among the redwoods.

And when the children pull and pour
out the contents upon the Berber rugs
across the land, the stockings languish,
empty, impotent for another 364 days.


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