Tall wispy willows lightly tapped the window
as I lain across the floor.
The green and red flashes, stimulated
my delicate cornea ever so.
Warmth overran my skin, warming me to the core.
I could hear the rattles of claws and nails
across the wooden door.
My family laughing hysterically,
like a bumbling nest of bees.
All ready for the night,
Where Saint Nicholas will pay a visit.


Our Odyssey continues to the tundra,
where the snowmen meet and greet.
My brothers are fighting in the snow
like the Great war had just broke out.
The skeleton trees, lay dormant,
white powder piled high upon their boughs.
I look out upon the neighborhood,
mountains of snow, ready to be conquered.
I glance at my brothers,
They dash and bash their way forward,
Into the cool winter night.

As we wake, the smell of eggs and pancakes.
My father's cooking, has never been malice.
My grandmother stands outside, just beyond the reaches of our door.
Her gentle, sweet charisma, welcomes us all,
Beckoning to the call,
of Saint Nick’s gifts.
My brothers and I, cheer and jeer down the hall.
With the simple clap, fluttering little hands,
Our parents make their way downstairs.

The nebula of presents congregates below the towering tree.
A sign of Nick’s humble visit,
in the depths of night.
“Ranger school isn’t preschool.”
“Ranger school isn’t preschool.”
My father who served, served for his children's rights,
All of our rights.


Christmas night, comes a feast of exotic flavors.
The luscious chocolate, insinuates more to come.
Abundant sources of sweets is never perishable,
Brownies so sweet they would satisfy all of humanity.
I will savor the taste for decades to come.

Those willows still tap, every Christmas,
My house still warm and sweet.
My father still resembling those who fought before him.
Those coveted times, where Saint Nicholas delivers without qualm or inquiry.
Those coveted times, where my family is my family.
Those coveted times, where I am from.