Daughter, tell me about Santa Claus.
Point him out everywhere with a loud
O-O-O before hiding in Mommy's collar
or behind a filled-to-bursting shopping bag.
Comb every crèche for saviors come early
then narrate the characters' prayers for me:
"Baa." "Moo." "Baby." "'appy."

Love the lights and the noise and the people
and this time of redemption, though you
can't know what it means to need redeeming.
Tell me through your full-wet-fisted sharing
about Santa and about joy and about
the gift that itself means more than anything.
The more I see your evergreen smile,
the more I find myself believing again.

From To the Ones Who Must Be Loved, published 2010.
Used with the author's permission.