A small parcel
Rambled on quietly
Through the national postal service;

A small box
Wrapped up in brown butcher paper and
Endorsed with a secret
Fictive script;
A singular word
Yet to be relearned.

So I laid it gently
Beneath the lit Christmas tree
And found myself
In a wakeful dream
Wandering slow beneath the scattered flakes
Breaking past the pines

Pondering.