Dear Christmas

Dear Christmas,
you've wrapped yourself in pretty bows each year,
along with, the sometimes snow, trying to spread cheer,
dancing in tinsel, ribbon-candy smiles,
large packages mailed across the miles.
Life however is not quite as pretty,
nor always kissed beneath the mistletoe,
and the weight of the white, laboring shovels, and hearts,
the box of wishes, of happiness and relief, more for Santa to know.

Dear Christmas,
you set the notion of freshly baked pies scented on the air,
gingerbread houses, like a Norman Rockwell painting, ice-skating at a winter fair,
adorned in laughter, warm coats and gloves,
carolers singing songs, in praise of their loves.
Life however sometimes not fragrant of kitchen aroma,
nor the apple-cinnamon delight,
yet tears and chill, those with far less, suffering frostbite,
and their boxes of wishes, that is their house,
not a creature stirring, not even a mouse.

Dear Christmas,
only one gift in mind, held to each year,
to wrap in a box some true heartfelt cheer,
dancing in tinsel, for those who need it most,
to those who are hungry, the delight of a roast,
take away the weight of the white, with stronger arms and warm embrace,
take away the tears, and place a smile on a face,
a box of comfort, warm coats, blankets, and a bed,
in happiness and relief, Santa, fill up your sled.