The last of those pesky holiday poems

(The above graphic was made with TypeStyler for the Macintosh. 'Tis a super program.)

This is the final installment of my holiday trilogy. Say amen, somebody.

A Gift of Friends

A knock on the door, little feet rush to see. Who could be calling tonight, Christmas eve?

The stranger, he shivered, as the door opened slow. The ground had been frozen beneath a fresh sparkling snow.

Hiya mister! Are you Santy Clause? Did you bring me my gifts?
The man gave a pause.

His coat was worn ragged, no shine for his shoes. No gloves for cold hands. He had little to lose.

Your name, boy? he said, his voice soft and low.

I'm Marty, I'm seven. Wow! Look! There's more snow!

Crystal flakes falling, a new winter storm. The man eyed the boy and wished he were warm.

Your folks, boy, he asked, are they gone for the night? His eyes prowled the house, searching the light. Then Marty remembered what his mother had said.
Don't open the door, dear, and go straight up to bed.

Mom's at a party with some other guy. Dad died last year, I think in July.
Hey mister, hey mister, please come inside, and I'll make you some Kool-Aid and then I'll go hide. Then you try and find me, it's a game that we play. Me and my mom, since dad went away.

The door slowly closed. The man was inside. Crystal snow falling. Nowhere to hide.

Okay now, you promised. Now I'll go and hide! And Marty shot off with a skip and a stride.

Rumpled and torn, coat slid to the floor. The boy watched him, giggling, through a crack in the door.

Hey mister! Hey mister! You said you would play! The man looked around, then headed his way.

I'm coming to get you, his voice soft and low. Where are you Marty? Where did you go?

Can't find me! Can't catch me! Marty squealed from his room, holding Teddy and Popeye by the light of the moon.

I'm coming to get you, his voice sing-song now. Can't hide from Santy, not on Noel!

A candle was burning besides Marty's bed. Made by his mother, sweetly scented and red. And the flame threw a shadow with a life of its own, and the walls danced with darkness as the candle burned on.

Under his bed the boy softly crept. Soft light and shadows played where he slept. Beat up old shoes were all he could see as the man, grinning now, whispered, Marrrrty.

The boy held his sides as the giggles they spread. Hiding there, innocent, under the bed.

The man took a step and was into the room. But then he just stood there, held by the moon. His sense were flooded, his eyes blinked back tears. Sweet candle, scented candle, was lifting his fears. Lavender memories, a whisper of thyme. Mint, sage and rosemary for Christ, the divine.

What's he doing? the boy thought at last. The man hadn't moved. A minute had passed. Then with hands gentle, the man he did bend. Two pairs of eyes touched, and the boy had a friend.

Comments

[andrea]

that's mr.fields poem