Everyone has had a bath
and is in pajamas. The floors
are scrubbed and waxed; the tree is lit.

In town, there will be a midnight mass,
but it's snowing, and it would be hard
for us to go with all of the little ones.

We don't have a fireplace, and we don't hang
stockings—--besides, we're not getting presents
this year; Black Peter saw us fighting.

I like the story of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer
better than Santa coming down the chimney.
The truth is, I don't like Santa at all.

I know the real story about Christmas, which
Sister Vincent read to us at school.  I also
know about the Communists in Hungary

and the little fir tree in the Hans Christian
Anderson's forest, the one who wanted to be
important and ended up in the dustbin.

When I finally fall asleep, it's only because
I remember the kind eyes of the cows
and their warm breath over the hay-filled crib.

© by Joyce Sutphen.
Used with the author's permission.